


Compromised

by Vashoth



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Biracial Jesse McCree, Blood, Child Abuse, Enemies to Friends, F/F, Fire, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Gang Violence, Genji Shimada is a Little Shit, Gun Violence, Hold on to your hats kiddos, Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking, Jesse and Genji are BFFs, M/M, Minor Character Death, Slow Burn, The whole gang makes an appearance in the background at some point, Unreliable Narrator, Violence, You're about to see why Blackwatch wanted to hire Jesse in the first place., plot heavy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-09-15 23:12:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 49,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9262925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vashoth/pseuds/Vashoth
Summary: The mission always comes first. No matter what happens, no matter who you meet along the way--the mission always has to come first.Or: the story of how Jesse McCree started with nothing, clawed his way out of hell, and survived the impossible. But mostly, how he learned he didn't have to do it all alone.





	1. Recall

**Author's Note:**

> Hi friends.
> 
> So this fic was born of pure frustration, ngl. I wanted to find a fic where Jesse McCree was the same man who managed to secure a position as a Blackwatch field agent at seventeen. Don't get me wrong, I love the whole Soft Cowboy Who's Alive Due To Sheer Luck aesthetic. But this fic is not gunna be that. Just warning you now. 
> 
> Also, if there is ever anything you need me to tag for? Please don't hesitate to let me know. Just 'cuz I want to explore some of the darker sides of Overwatch doesn't mean you have to run in blind to things that might trigger you. I could even do little chapter summaries of significant events in the end notes if that helps. Gunna skip it right now though so I can get this beast posted so I can start collecting validationnnnnn. (plx validate me)
> 
> This fic is also unbeta'd. If you spot mistakes, please feel free to yell them at me.  
> (And if you so happen to want to beta, lmk.)
> 
> anyway, here's wonderwall.

* * *

 

> **AGENT: Jesse J. McCree**  
>  **LOG DATE:** _August 2nd, 2076. 3:06pm.  
>  _**LOCATION:** _Andes mountain range, near the Chilean and Argentinian Border  
>  _**SUBJECT:** [REDACTED]

 

Contrary to popular belief, Jesse McCree was not actually roaming the desert wastelands when the recall came. In fact, he was halfway up the side of a frigid mountain in southern Chile. He could have been using the surprisingly well-maintained pathway, but his boss had insisted on stealth. Which apparently required using only analog tools (like it wasn’t fucking 2076 and there weren’t shitty hoverboards for sale at a dime a dozen) to slowly, painfully scale walls of rock solid ice. Y’know, just in case the group of _tourists_ he stalked managed to keep radar tech on them.  

 

‘ _You complain too much,_ pendejo _._ ’ Reyes’ voice echoed in his skull, memory still as clear as day. 

 

“Didn’t say shit,” McCree muttered, face still sour.

 

Earlier that morning, he had attached something that looked like a tacky metal shark’s tooth to the point of his metallic elbow and wedged it into a crack in the ice. He had used a bit of black cloth to tie the metal wrist firmly to the top of his shoulder so that the arm wouldn’t loll about uselessly, but it still shuffled and drooped when he shifted his weight. Not much to be done about that. The angle it was wrenched in looked painful, but he’d turned off the electronics in the arm before putting it in place.

 

Still, if the tiny icicles that clung to some of the kinked wiring were any indication, reconnecting the feeling in that arm was gonna hurt like a motherfucker.

 

McCree clung to the wooden handle of his freshly purchased (and probably ruined) ice pick with his other arm and tried to balance his weight between the pick and his elbow. He held himself as close to the ice wall as he could despite the burn in his muscles _like a goddamn professional_. He had taken proper precautions with camouflage, of course. Thick synthetic fabrics painted with greys, whites, and blues covered him from head to toe. He’d added in his own touch of plush faux fur patchwork to imitate the fluff of snow and provide a little extra warmth. The plastic oxygen mask he’d stolen from his last flight made sure that no visible clouds of breath escaped him.

 

At the moment, he was just waiting for the group to catch up to his position. Waiting was the hardest part on these kinds of missions. His eyes stung from the biting wind and he had to blink repeatedly to keep them from tearing up.

 

The wind on the mountainside was deafening. You would think that climbing up higher than birds flew would have some sort of peace and quiet to it. But as the air slowly lost density, it started acting as the pissy messenger in a violent fight between Earth’s gravity and its atmosphere. Instead of just beating on his sides like it normally would, it would occasionally try to yank him up higher just to push him down from above like insistent hands on his shoulders. And it didn’t whistle so much as _scream_.

 

A deadly combo of protective head gear, fabric wrapping, heaps of snow, and the screaming wind meant that McCree couldn’t hope to hear the group coming even if they suddenly decided to do their best imitation of a subway mariachi band. But as they crept closer, he could make some educated guesses as to what the tour group leader was saying.

 

“This here is a fuckton of snow,” McCree mumbled to himself as the tour guide gestured to the wall of the mountain. “Just frozen fuckin’ water, folks.”

 

“There’s so much of it!” McCree’s voice pitched a little higher to give voice to one of the tourists (Tim, he decided) who gestured excitedly. “Like, more than I’ve ever seen!”

 

“I know,” McCree let his mumble grow smug on behalf of the tour guide. “So much fucking snow that you suckers paid me a stupid amount to come take fucking photos of it.”

 

He could see the shine of the helmets on their protective suits. Ten or so people bumbled behind the tour guide, pressing their credit cards to a small square he held out in exchange for some shitty-looking handheld cameras. Four or five of them wandered around while the guide waited to take photos. There were professionals with hard earned skills that struggled to capture the majesty of Chilean mountains, but surely Tim from Bumfuck Nowhere, Oklahoma would manage it on his shitty 35 cred camera.

 

Tim leaned over the side of the path, ignoring the half-assed warning gestures from the tour guide, and looked directly where McCree was. McCree stared back blandly, unconcerned. Tim’s eyes scanned past him without even noticing anything, still scoping out the perfect photo. Funnily enough, McCree’s spot seemed to make the cut. He wasn’t sure if that was a compliment to his camouflage skills that he blended in enough to be invisible right in front of someone, or insulting that he’d apparently still managed to stick out as something photo worthy. He saw Tim’s finger press the camera’s button before he saw the flash go off. It would just look like a solid white blur, but he would figure that out on his own later.

 

McCree still made a face at the camera--just in case.

 

‘ _Quit fucking around._ ’

 

The goofy smile dropped off his face in a split second. Tim backed away from the ledge and it was go time. McCree hauled himself up higher, kicking the knife tips on his boots into the ice for leverage as he pulled himself up. Tim, bless his heart, looked surprised when McCree was close enough to see the details of his face through the protective glass. He reached out a hand to help him to his feet before the guide even noticed something was weird.

 

“Hey, are you okay?” Tim’s lips said. McCree was somewhat glad he couldn’t hear his voice. Made this part easier.

 

The pistol was in his hand and cocked in a split second. Six shots silently sliced through the helmets of six tourists. He dropped the empty clip and reloaded. The muffler seemed unnecessary at this altitude, and he had to pay attention to the soft recoil of the slender weapon to make sure he really had fired. Four more shots. Ten fresh bodies crumpled to the snow as peacefully as if they had been that way when McCree got there.

 

He took a moment to shake out the muscles in his sore arm before going about removing the protective helmets one at a time. He took out his shitty burner phone and snapped photos of the people’s faces as he did. Shock graced a couple of their features, but most of them looked like they hadn’t really noticed the hole now adorning their forehead.

 

The bitter cold had frozen the blood before it could really spill. Without the bloody mess that usually came with killing, it almost looked like the wounds were fake. But the stillness wasn’t. That was the telling sign. McCree clipped the pistol back onto his belt.

 

He sent the photos to his boss and waited patiently for the bulky message to completely transfer. There was no response from the number. Just an alert from his newest bank account letting him know of a large deposit. The corners of his lips twitched upwards. He dropped the phone to the snow and put the tip of the ice pick through its tiny blinking screen, satisfied when the lights flickered off. It was irritatingly difficult to shake the phone off of the ice pick again with only one functioning arm, but he managed. He tucked the phone into the left breast pocket of Tim’s protective suit with a quick pat before he used his foot to nudge Tim’s body off the side of the mountain. The other nine quickly followed.

 

_Beep. Beeeeeeep._

 

McCree nearly leapt out of his fucking skin. The pistol was drawn in a nanosecond as he scanned the plateau suspiciously. He’d counted ten bodies. There were ten tourists, including the guide. He hadn’t miscounted. He was so sure--

 

_Beeeeeeep. Beep._

 

He skittered behind one of the larger boulders and slammed his back against the side of the mountain. Loose snow threatened to slip under his collar. He leaned forward to see if anyone had approached. Whatever brief hope he had of approaching the beeping with reasonableness or clarity went right out the fucking window when it started beeping again.

 

_Beep. Beep. Beep. Beeeeep._

 

He nearly slammed his face into the rock when he realized the sound was coming from beneath him. The tiny, square clip-on communicator he had used in his Blackwatch days was blinking bright blue, ignoring the silence and stillness the mountainside forced on its visitors. McCree stared at it. _Morse code,_ _maybe?_ He closed his eyes and focused.

 

 _Beep. Beeeeeeep. Beeeeeeep. Beep._ _Beep. Beep. Beep. Beeeeep._

 

 _Alert_ , he translated.

 

That… didn’t really answer anything.

 

What the fuck kind of alert could be coming from Blackwatch? It had been three years since the attack that wiped Overwatch from the map. Three goddamn years since he’d last had an inkling of desire to send the lot of them a message saying that he was alive and okay. That familiar flame concern had spluttered when Ana Amari got shot. Then died out in the explosion with Gabriel Reyes. Now here he was, with his old communicator screeching at him like some overly pushy ex.

 

McCree carefully held his gun against his chest with the weight of his mechanical arm and wrapped his fingers around the little box. He snapped the plastic connecting it to his belt--also a remnant of Blackwatch days--and held it up to his face as if it would answer more questions that way. He had only brought it with him because the flare function made an excellent flashlight in emergencies. A scowl tugged at his features as he reared back to hurl the thing off the cliff with the rest of the bodies. Let the police explain _that_.

 

The blue light flashed bright enough to make McCree stumble back. He braced himself against the wall of the mountain again and glared at the thing. Sure enough, even through the spots in his vision, he could see the tiny hologram projection of Winston saying… something. The audio wasn’t as piercing as the Morse code had been and was swept away by the wind. McCree watched it frantically, trying to read the ape’s badly pixelated lips. It wasn’t working. The message started to loop.

 

‘ _What are you doing, mijo?_ ’ Reyes’ voice was tired. ‘ _You don’t have time for this._ ’

 

“Shit if I ever know,” McCree groused. He peeked out from behind the boulder again. Path was clear. He tucked the still-babbling Winston in his pocket and--against his better judgement--shuffled up the path to the next stop the tourists would’ve seen had they lived long enough.

 

The cave was a particularly beautiful one--as far as caves went. It was still dark. It was made of rock. It still felt like it should be vaguely damp, despite the freezing cold not allowing for it. And like other caves, it sheltered him briefly from wind and the worst of the cold.

 

McCree ignored what little he could hear of Winston in favour of shoving the faux fur hood off his head. It fell onto his shoulders with a soft _fwoof_ of snow puffing away from it like it was personally offended by the action. Taking off the wool headscarf one-handed was possibly more trouble than it was worth, but he did it anyway. Taking off the last piece, a white ski mask, was a bit trickier since it involved temporarily removing the oxygen mask.

 

Frozen air punctured his lungs and made his eyes water. He swore his hair had been braided neatly when he’d put on the mask, but now bangs and frizz fell forward in front of his eyes like he hadn’t brushed it a day in his life. At least he’d shaved. He shoved the hair roughly back and replaced the oxygen mask quickly. His ears already felt the bite of cold.

 

This had better be good, he thought, as he fished out the communicator.

 

Winston’s message replayed when McCree’s thumb pressed one of the buttons on the side of the box. The scientist ape hadn’t changed a bit. He looked just as awkward as McCree remembered and was rambling on about the good of the world, protecting the innocent, _blah blah blah_. It was enough to bring a small smile to McCree’s face. Weird.

 

Then the gorilla had to go and say _that_. That all of Overwatch’s agents had been contacted because Winston was instigating a recall. A very, _very_ illegal recall. And that he hoped all the contacted agents would rejoin Overwatch with him.

 

McCree had to consciously decide to close his mouth before he realized he was gaping. He had never even been _in_ Overwatch. Technically. That didn’t seem to matter to the bright little dialogue box that popped up with two options:

 

**ACCEPT / DENY**

 

“Interesting,” McCree said.

 

‘ _Interesting,_ ’ Reyes’ memory echoed.

 

 

* * *

  

> **AGENT: Jesse J. McCree**  
>  **LOG DATE:** _Spanning approximately 2043 to 2045.  
>  _**LOCATION:** _About 20min south of Las Cruces, New Mexico_  
>  **SUBJECT:** _Personal History: Marked Confidential_

 

Once upon a time, Jesse’s Papa was a carpenter. Or rather, he had wanted to be a carpenter. Jesse remembered the day he came home with his arms full of shitty, damp two-by-fours that had probably fallen off their transport truck and a smile brighter than the sun.

 

“They were cheap,” Papa had explained with a wink.

 

“You stole them?” Mama had scolded. “ _Cariño_ , we are better than that.”

 

“Ain’t no one wants the shit wood from the bottom of the truck bed anyway,” he’d explained, waving a hand at the planks he’d deposited on the front steps, “so ain’t no one gunna get on my ass about ’em being missing.”

 

He’d been right, but that didn’t matter. His mama could never say no to that smile anyway.

 

Papa had sanded those planks down as best he could. He spent hours after work carefully moulding them to where they might be mistaken for something halfway decent. The finished pieces were a beautiful golden brown with just a touch of cherry that could have seemed like something other than evidence of decay if you weren’t looking hard enough. His papa had propped them up against the living room wall next to the TV when he started ripping up the faux hardwood next to the faux tile in the kitchen.

 

“This’ll get us out of here someday, love,” he would promise over his shoulder. Mama watched him with careful brown eyes but she said nothing. “Out of this shit town, and out of the goddamn heat. I’ll build you that house on the plains yet.”

 

“Language, _cariño_ ,” Mama chided, though the reprimand didn’t quite reach her eyes.

 

In the end, his Papa’d managed to place only three or four of the wooden planks at the seam where the faux tile of their kitchenette met the fake wood that spread through the rest of the tiny house. Then he got sick and carpentry wasn’t really an option anymore. But still, mama left those planks there like a project that might get finished and dutifully stepped over the cement gap separating them from the shitty fake hardwood that had begun to curve upwards at the corners.

 

Jesse remembered clearly the sound that the strange man’s fingernails made on that hardwood floor as his mama dragged him to the kitchen by his ankle. The lines in the plastic bit out a sharp staccato, sort of like when Tommy down the street had put a playing card between the spokes of his bike. The man was screaming something between a threat and a plea, but his Mama had gone sorta deaf as of late. And his Papa hadn’t really had much to say for a little over a year.

 

She stepped over the gap in the wood without looking. The sound of the man’s fingernails on the fake hardwood let up briefly as he scrambled to find purchase in the gap where the real hardwood started. There was a creak then a snap. One of the panels of wood popped off the floor where it had been glued. That made his mama pause. She briefly looked over her shoulder to where his papa sat in the living room. But Jesse knew without looking that Papa hadn’t moved. The man stopped screaming.

 

“See,” the man laughed, breathless. He thought that her pause was hesitation. Jesse knew better. “I can still find you something to make it up to you! I’m still good for it. Money’s just been tight, you know how it is--”

 

The dragging started again and his nails on the real hardwood sounded different. Smoother. Jesse closed his bedroom door and dove into his bunk to hide his head under his pillow.

 

He wasn’t supposed to watch this part.

 

* * *

 

> **AGENT: Jesse J. McCree  
>  ****LOG DATE:** _August 10th, 2076. 6:21pm.  
>  _**LOCATION:** _Karlstad, Sweden._  
>  **SUBJECT:** _Misc.: Low Priority_

 

McCree waited a week or so before he started his trip to Gibraltar. Partially because he wasn’t sure he had actually meant it when he’d hit “ACCEPT” and partially because he didn’t want them to think he had nothing else going on. He was a very busy man. He’d just finished a job taking out a whole group of folks on a Chilean mountain. That was the only reason he was immediately available. Having a small gap of time between jobs was totally normal.

 

He repeated this to himself for about the hundredth time as he paced his hotel room in southern Sweden.

 

He sauntered up to the mirror again and brushed his thumb over the corners of his beard. It was about the right length now, he figured. He was still dreading cutting his hair. It reached the middle of his back when he put it up in a loose braid and was so much more practical than the haircut he kept on his wanted posters. None of the hair in his eyes and constant upkeep that came with his former preferred style, and none of the constant shaving to prevent the itching of a buzz cut. It was simple. Easy. And it was not going to grow back fast.

 

Metallic fingers tapped the handle of the scissors like he expected them to bite.

 

 _Sigh._ Nope.

 

With his good hand, he pulled his braid in front of him again and took one last appraising look at it. Didn’t go with the beard anyway.

 

 

* * *

 

> **AGENT: Jesse J. McCree**  
>  **LOG DATE:** _May 17th, 2045. 8:45pm  
>  _**LOCATION:** _About 20min south of Las Cruces, New Mexico_  
>  **SUBJECT:** _Personal History: Marked Confidential_

 

Mama was on her hands and knees polishing up the hardwood planks with the utmost focus. Her long, dark hair was braided, with her bangs held back by an old, worn bandana. She was still wearing her work clothes: her old ripped-up jeans, a ratty t-shirt under an improvised bullet proof vest, a pistol tucked into her waistline like an afterthought. The Deadlock tattoo on her left forearm still looked as fresh as the day she’d gotten it.

 

Jesse hadn’t been allowed to watch that either.

 

Between the door to Jesse’s room and the kitchen was Papa, still in his armchair. He hadn’t moved much since that morning. Still had a pile of syringes next to him, with empty vials littering the floor around him. The tourniquet was still on his arm, and Jesse could see the skin was still a little purple. He didn’t look Jesse’s way. His papa watched as their TV told stories of another victory for Gabriel Reyes against the omnics. Papa stared from his armchair with blank, unseeing eyes.

 

The ripped up plank from earlier had been carefully replaced with one of the wooden planks still next to the TV. Save for a few splatters on her shirt, there was no trace of blood from the man earlier. That didn’t erase the feeling that he had been here, though. Jesse always thought the kitchen felt weird when mama brought her work home with her. But behind her were papers and envelopes methodically organized across the kitchen floor like nothing had ever happened. She paused briefly in her polishing to look up at Jesse.

 

“Oh. Jesse.” She forced a smile onto her face and held out her arms to him.

 

He shuffled forward begrudgingly and shoved his face into the crook of her shoulder. Her arms were thin and strong around him. He tried to close his eyes, but he’d locked onto a particularly large gob of something still stuck to her sleeve. He felt the sniffle coming before it happened and tried to shove it back down. _Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry._

 

He cried.

 

“Oh, Jesse, shhhhh, shhhh.” She soothed, running her fingers over his back. “I know _mijo_ , I know. I’m so sorry. I wish you hadn’t been here for all of that.”

 

She tried to pull him back to look at his face but he remained stubbornly wedged. She sighed and let go of that battle.

 

“War is a terrible thing, Jesse. Protection from the omnics isn’t free, you know that.” She traced her fingers through his hair. He wished he could tell her to stop talking. He wished she would never stop talking. “Deadlock is… temporary. Just until your Daddy gets better, okay? We’ll find better protection. We’ll get out of here.”

 

Jesse’s cries had quieted to tearful shaking. Behind him on the TV, Gabriel Reyes led his troop out of a no-man’s zone and into enemy territory, one of the reporters said. Isn’t that reckless? asked another. It worked, didn’t it?

 

“Sometimes, Jess, you just do what needs to be done.” Mama was still rubbing small circles in his shoulder. Her voice grounded him. “What your mama does isn’t good, but. Right now it’s our way out of here. Can you understand that, _mijo_?”

 

With all the wisdom only an six year old can possess, he found his voice. “It’s okay, Mama. I still think you’re good.”

  
He couldn’t remember if it was him or his mama that held on tighter.

 

 


	2. Peacekeeper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, thank you guys so much??? This fic got overwhelmed with kudos, subscriptions, bookmarks, and comments all within the first 24 hours and I'm just. I had completely forgotten what it was like to create content for an active fandom. And here you guys come with your endless support and I just. I wanted to crank this chapter out as fast as I could so you didn't have to wait, ok??? It originally had two more segments to it but I got carried away and. well.
> 
> I'm not crying, you're crying. 
> 
> ANYWAY. Lets play a game called How Many Times Can McCree Get Away With Changing The Subject? 
> 
> Also if you think Lena and her girlfriend aren't gunna have some major screen time in this fic, bud you clearly don't know how excited I am that the cavalry's queer. 
> 
> As with the previous chapter, this is unbeta'd and written by an exhausted grad student. If there are mistakes, please do not hesitate to yell them out at me. Maybe bring a foghorn. idk man.

 

 

> **AGENT: Jesse J. McCree  
>  ****LOG DATE:** _August 12th, 2076. 2:15pm.  
>  _**LOCATION:** _Watchpoint, Gibraltar; kitchens.  
>  _**SUBJECT:** _Misc.: Low Priority_

 

Lena Oxton had shown up at Gibraltar about an hour and forty-five minutes after Winston sent out the recall because _of course she had,_ and was thus delighted to tell an exhausted Jesse McCree all about everything he might have missed (“and then some!”).

 

Angela had come next, four days after Lena, apparently insisting she wasn’t going to let anyone she cared about die by being absent when they “did something stupid.” Reinhardt and Brigitte showed up a couple weeks later full of apologies, something about repairs taking longer than expected. McCree secretly suspected that, despite Lena’s dramatic retelling, the crew probably never doubted the eventual arrival of the old knight. Or if they had, all doubt was likely dissolved when they heard Reinhardt’s clanking while he was still three days away.

 

Torbjorn had just sort of _appeared_ on base, touching up the AC units and fixing the old water boilers like he had never left in the first place. He’d just grunted in response when Lena asked when he’d gotten back, so she never really figured out when he arrived.

 

“...and Genji and his master arrived from Nepal just a week or so ago!” Lena finished excitedly. “But now you’re here too! We were--well _I_ was--a little worried that you weren’t going to--”

 

“I wasn’t gunna what? Arrive in one piece?” He waggled his mechanical fingers with a slow, teasing grin before she became a spluttering mess. Lena moved to grab his arm but he easily sidestepped her, instead focusing on giving the ancient coffee machine what must’ve been its first _real_ task since Reyes died. He could faintly hear Lena going on about her never-ending well of concern, but he was busy wondering if he could override the “one drink per cup” programming on the coffee machine. _Triple shot of espresso, mixed with one cup regular americana, about a quarter cup of sugar, and foamed up latte milk for good measure._ It kept yelling at him that it was done and ready for him to place the next cup under it. He stood there patiently overriding it until his canteen started to look more full.

 

Lena tried to grab his arm from behind him and he pretended to surf through the higher cabinets just to keep it out of her grasp. “Dashing, ain’t it? Now, slow down a tic. Genji has a _master?_ You can’t just drop that shit without explaining, Lena. Are we talkin’ Obi-Wan or Miyagi?”

 

When he turned, he kept his canteen in his metal hand so that maybe she would be less tempted, knowing that it was holding about half a gallon of near-boiling coffee. It seemed to work for the moment when he saw Lena’s eyes widen, sparkling almost comically.

 

“Yes! Zenyatta! He’s taken Genji on like an acolyte or something. Oh you should _see_ him, Jesse. He’s all calm and serene now. I swear he was meditating earlier.”

 

“You’re fuckin’ with me.”

 

“I am _not_.” She giggled. Her eyes still darted to his hand, but she let it be. _Good_. McCree was still working on gradually forcing his eyebrows to come back down from his hairline when she added, “And he’s invited his brother to join Overwatch.”

 

McCree’s face must not have been as under control as he thought because she immediately added, “Yes. _That_ brother. He says he’s _forgiven_ him.”

 

“You can’t just forgive someone for _murdering_ you.” McCree ground the words out between his teeth. Sure, Overwatch had always been the weird cousin of Blackwatch that insisted on holding hands and skipping through fields of daisies, but... _For fucks sake_.

 

“Technically he didn’t murder him. Seeing as he didn’t _die_ , and all,” Lena pointed out helpfully. McCree scoffed loudly. She had started prodding with her communicator again, scrolling through her emails like a nervous fidget. “Y’know…”

 

She paused, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. _Here it comes._

 

“Aw, spit it out already, Lena. S’just me. It ain’t that intimidating, is it?” McCree collapsed into one of the kitchen chairs and folded his metal arm across his chest. It was meant to be a light jab, but it came out a little harsher than he meant. So he kicked out a dirty boot to nudge at her leg playfully. She dodged, flickered and blinked across the room like it was natural to her. _That’s going to take a while to get used to again._ “Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

 

“It’s just…” She trailed off, closing the browser. She was still avoiding eye contact.

 

“What, is it something with Emily?” He raised an eyebrow.

 

“No, no, everything’s fine-- ...hold on.” She almost didn’t catch it. Bright brown eyes narrowed at him and he couldn’t stop the self-satisfied grin on his face. _Bingo_. “Who told you about Emily?”

 

McCree dug a cigarillo out of his pocket and twirled it across his knuckles like the world’s lamest baton. “Oh, a little birdy told me. Well. A large birdy. Actually, he’s more of an--”

 

“ _Winston_ ,” Lena hissed.

 

McCree laughed, loud and easy. “Yeeeep.” He popped the ‘p’ extra hard. He gestured vaguely to her communicator. “That and, y’know. I can’t imagine that many platonic gal pals who would email you that many times with that many hearts.”

 

She blinked at him owlishly. For a split second he thought she might actually be mad, but then she grinned, slow and wild. The amount of electricity in her seemed to crackle. When she hurled herself into his lap for a hug, he thought the feeling must be akin to sticking a metal fork in an outlet.

 

“Geez, Len, no need for the theatrics. I ain’t _dead--_ ”

 

“Oh Jesse _shut up_ ,” she said, but she had no malice in her voice. She leaned back a bit so she could look at him properly and some of the spark left her eyes. “We were so worried, y’know? Weren’t sure you’d come back.”

 

A long second passed.

 

He swallowed dryly. The smile he plastered onto his face felt genuine enough to squeak under her radar. “I’m here now, ain’t I?”

 

Lena did that thing where she flattened her lips into an almost-frown, too concerned to really look like anything hostile. It was a touch too close to pity for McCree’s comfort. “You’re a part of this family, Jesse McCree.”

 

He snorted. “You tellin’ me I’m a monkey’s uncle?”

 

“Gorilla,” she corrected, grinning again. “And you know what I mean. I know things between Overwatch and Blackwatch were… Y’know.”

 

“Violent at best?” he offered.

 

“Terse,” she amended. “But this time is gunna be different. I can feel it.”

 

“How d’you know it ain’t just the TARDIS strapped to your chest that’s making you feel wonky?” he joked, carefully trying to wrench the conversation into a different direction.  

 

She shoved at his shoulder. “Y’know what I mean.”

 

“I _really_ don’t.”

 

She huffed and stood up. “It’s different ‘cause you’re here, love.”

 

He didn’t let his smile fall.

 

She gave him one that was half apologetic.

 

“We didn’t really… Overwatch had a poison in it. I don’t need’a tell you, I’m sure. I’m not sayin’ what Gabe did was right, but.” She crossed her arms over the chronal accelerator and rocked back on her heels. Her mouth pressed thin again. She made a point not to look at McCree when she mentioned Reyes. Probably a smart decision. “I’m just sayin’ I kinda get why he was hurting so bad, y’know? The stuff you had to do just to keep us in the light…”

 

Seriousness was an expression utterly foreign to Lena’s face. It was sometimes hard to remember that a real person was under those neon goggles. Her brows scrunched forward and her eyes fell heavy to a spot on the floor. Hands hung limp at her sides, fingers twitching for the safe feeling that came with being armed. This was a battle McCree would just have to stomach losing. So he sat forward and listened.

 

“You were just a kid, y’know?” Her eyes darted up to his, then back to the floor. “It wasn’t right.”

 

‘ _How old are you, kid?_ ’ Reyes’ voice came unbidden from a pinched spot at the back of his skull.

 

‘ _Forty-three_ ,’ he had said.

 

Reyes had laughed.

 

“But not this time,” Lena said, snapping him back to the present. The sad shadow that crept over her features was replaced with the sharp stubbornness McCree recognized. He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “We’re in it together this time. And not just for the missions that make PR happy. Wherever humanity needs us, even if it isn’t pretty!”

 

McCree tried not to snicker, he _really_ did. But the thought of Lena sneering down at a prisoner like the world’s angriest Cindy Lou-Who was anything _but_ intimidating. She pouted at him indignantly (honestly just proving his point further) and he stood up to pull her into another gentle hug. Partially to placate her, and partially because he couldn’t stop laughing.

 

“Well I can’t say that ain’t a relief,” he sighed dramatically. “Here I was ready to pull teeth all by my lonesome. Brought my best rusty pliers and everything.”

 

She wriggled out of his arms and tried to keep her pout stubbornly in place, but the sparkle in her eyes gave her away. It always did.

 

“Aw, c’mon, Jess. You never pulled any teeth.” She shoved at his shoulder. When he didn’t respond right away, she blinked. “Did you?”

 

‘ _Pain isn’t as helpful as delirium. People in pain say whatever the fuck you want them to. Delirious people don’t have their shit together enough to tell you apart from their mama,_ ’ Reyes told him, handing him something that looked like a machete. ‘ _Blood loss is great for making some high quality delirium. Work quickly,_ vaquero _._ ’

 

“Nah,” McCree replied, sheepishly scratching the back of his neck. “Just toenails.”

 

“Eeeewwwwww!” Lena shoved him harder this time. He laughed hard and genuine.

 

“Not that I’m not lovin’ the reminiscing about teeth and toenails, but where’d you say Genji got himself off to?” McCree shuffled around the kitchen to grab one of the red plastic cups someone had bought and filled it with tap water. It tasted like old pipes. “I’ve gotta pull a couple’a teeth n’ toenails of his, it seems. Forgiving his murderer. _Pfft_.”

 

“I dunno, training probably.” Lena shrugged. She reached up to steal his hat and, like always, he batted her hand away. Her hand snapped out and wrapped around his mechanical wrist. A triumphant gleam in her eyes told McCree that this had gone exactly as she planned. She inspected it closely, like it would reveal some sort of story if she stared hard enough. “Still gunna make you explain this, love. Don’t think I’ve forgotten.”

 

“Not much to explain. You’ve seen Fargo right?” he teased. “Well, you know that scene with the wood-chipper--”

 

“ _Jesse._ ”

 

He laughed. She let got of his arm reluctantly.

 

“And you still gotta tell me everythin’ about Emily, a’ight?” McCree said as he started walking down the hallway. He could still hear her giggling even as he rounded the corner.

 

Paranoia settled in his gut the second he passed the kitchen door, as if the frame itself had stripped him of the warm sense of safety that came with talking to old teammates. It was a feeling he’d encouraged, and he’d used it to keep himself alive on more than one occasion. But it made him feel eccentric at times. It kept him wary of all the good things in life and that unquestionably included Lena. And her giggle. He would’ve been lying if he said his stomach hadn’t twisted up something fierce at the sound of it. It sounded too familiar.

 

Too much like being a dumbass kid again.

 

The old Blackwatch hall looked more or less the same, save for the chalkboard name plates which were overwhelmingly blank. The hall was long, narrow, and lit with the kind of fluorescent lights that could make anyone look like they’d been recently raised from the dead--never mind worn and battered black-ops agents. There was a dimly lit vending machine at the very end of the hall with the same ‘OUT OF ORDER’ paper taped to it’s front that Reyes had tacked onto it back in ‘58.

 

One room had already been claimed without filling in the plate, instead signifying occupancy with a jacket draped over the door handle. Another had a torn piece of paper taped to the ajar door with Genji’s name scrawled on it. McCree prodded the bottom of the door to push it open a bit further. Inside was an omnic.

 

McCree had his gun trained on him in a second before the complete lack of a reaction told him the omnic wasn’t operational. He was just sorta sitting there. Surrounded by a bunch of… balls? Since when was Overwatch in the business of recruiting omnics?

 

That, he decided, was a problem for future McCree.

 

And since Genji wasn’t in his room, he let the mystery sit untouched, carefully tugging the door back where it had been. He thought about claiming the room next door so he and Genji could be neighbors again. It was tempting, but…

 

He sauntered down the hall a little further to claim the dorm on the corner. Alanza “Alley Cat” Pomales’ old room. And if McCree remembered correctly, this room had a full en suite bathroom. One that he had made a whole bunch of bad decisions in. McCree grinned as the full standing shower next to a full size tub greeted him.

 

 _Yeah, this’ll do_ , he thought.

 

He let his more-or-less empty duffle hit the floor anticlimactically. The serape came off next, flung at the bare cot tucked in the corner. He carefully pinched off his glove, followed by his hat, protective vest, shin guards, and finally, boots. His toes wiggled up at him gratefully.

 

He hesitated at his belt. Peacekeeper felt heavy on his hip.

 

‘ _Would be real embarrassing to get gunned down on your own damn turf, eh vaquero?_ ’

 

He left it on and flopped back on his bed. He didn’t let the paranoia stop him from picking up his hat and draping it over eyes.

 

 

* * *

 

 

> **AGENT: Jesse J. McCree  
>  ****LOG DATE:** _February 1st, 2052. 7:53am  
>  _**LOCATION:** _About 20min south of Las Cruces, New Mexico_  
>  **SUBJECT:** _Personal History: Marked Confidential_

 

After being woken up by the fire alarm for the sixth time, he and Mama made an executive decision to just yank the thing out of the ceiling. The house may have been wooden and ramshackle at best, but you could see every part of it if you stood behind Papa’s chair in the living room. If there was a fire, it wouldn’t be a secret.

 

Still, when Jesse woke up smelling smoke, he always had that internal debate. It was probably just Mama out on the porch smoking. He leaned his head to the side and looked at the door that shut his room off from the rest of the house like it would tell him the answer. It was probably just Mama.

 

Jesse scrunched his eyes shut and ran a hand over his face. He sat up and stretched his legs out before he stood up, then popped his back. He didn’t fit on his dingy little mattress anymore. Hadn’t since he’d turned twelve, but it worked well enough. No need to make a big fuss about it. Mama had enough to worry about with Papa’s medicine.

 

He pushed his bedroom door open and immediately felt relief when he saw no black smoke, no house burning fire. Just a steady trickle of gray coming in through the screen of the cracked front door. Red light pushed through the gaps like it was desperate and painted long jagged streaks across the kitchenette.

 

Papa had fallen asleep on the armchair again with his head tilted back and his mouth open slack. Jesse made sure his footsteps were quieter than his labored breathing as he tiptoed to the front door.

 

He poked his head out cautiously, and immediately caught his mama’s gaze.

 

“Did I wake you, _mijo_?” she asked apologetically. He nodded. She patted beside her and he shuffled outside to join her.

 

She adjusted her angle to make sure that the thick smoke blew downwind of him. It smelled rich and sweet like soured vanilla. He tried not to show his shoulders heave as he sucked in as much air as he could. Maybe he could trap it in his lungs if he tried hard enough. He snuck a glance at her face. Bright red and gold light painted thin streaks through her hair and lit her dark brown eyes up to a startling amber. Even with all the fire dancing on her dark skin, she looked tired the way she always did after a few glasses of mezcal. Jesse hunched over and pretended to be interested in a pebble.

 

“I’m sorry, _Jessito_ ,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry your life has been so hard.”

 

“Aw, Mama my life ain’t hard,” he grumbled. “Jus’ don’t like algebra is all. Nothin’ I can’t get through.”

 

She shot him a withering look and he regretted his words. “You know what I mean, _mijo_.”

 

He tried to think of something to say. Sometimes, if he got really lucky, he could make her crack a smile. But right now he was coming up empty. So he said nothing.

 

“Your Papa was a good man, Jess.” Her expression fixated on the desert sunset again, her eyes far, far away. “Dunno how much you remember of him, but he was good to you. To us.”

 

Jesse’s heart sank to unpleasant depths in his gut. “What’cha mean ‘was’? He’s in his chair sawin’ logs like he always does.”

 

She nodded and waved the hand with the cigarette placatingly. “He’s not there anymore, you know? He’s not him.”

 

Jesse swallowed. He picked at a hangnail half heartedly. “He’ll get better when he gets better, Mama.”

 

A sad smile crossed her features in that way Jesse hated. He looked away. Her arm draped around him, warm, and wiry strong. Like the sort of hug you could expect from a willow tree. He leaned into it.

 

“There isn’t an easy way to tell you this, _mijo_ , so…” She took a deep inhale off the cigarette. Jesse braced himself for that warm tobacco smell. “I don’t think your Papa’s going to be with us much longer. Think he’s going to Heaven soon. ...Have we had that talk? Christ, I can’t remember.”

 

“I know what death is, ma. I’m thirteen,” he said, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

 

She nodded. “Of course.”

 

They lapsed into silence again. The reds were slowly turning to violent purples. Without any clouds to mark the difference between sky and sand, the horizon started to blur like it forgot where it was supposed to sit and was hoping no one noticed. There was nothing around their tiny little house for miles. And when the sky got like this, it kinda felt like the tiny little trailer that his Papa had propped up on cinderblocks and built their house around was the last thing standing at the edge of the whole world.

 

Something clicked by his Mama and snapped him out of it. He glanced over to her. She had drawn her gun and was toying with the safety. It was an old fashioned six shooter heavier than anything he’d seen other Deadlocks’ carrying. Two years or so ago, he’d super glued a spur onto the butt of the handle. Just in case she got into one of those fights he was always seeing in the cowboy movies his Papa liked. He’d thought he was so clever. Now, Jesse looked at it with mild embarrassment.

 

“You don’t gotta keep that stupid spur on there. It ain’t even glued on straight.”

 

“Hush, _Jessito_. I love it.” She spun it with the heel of her palm and waggled her eyebrows at him.

 

“Aw, geez, ma, stop it,” he whined, looking pointedly anywhere but her face. That strong wiry arm kept him trapped like a lasso as she laughed a little. That made it worth it. Didn’t mean he was gunna turn back around though.

 

“It makes me look like those cowboys you and your Papa are always watching.” She raised the gun and aimed it at the tall cactus a few meters away from their house. “Pew, pew! Bullseye!”

 

“Ma, c’mon quit it, I ain’t a kid,” Jesse huffed. “I know that ain’t what a gun sounds like.”

 

“Oh, yeah?” she taunted. The cigarette hung from her lips like she really was one of those action stars. Soon as she saw that he was looking her way again, she yanked him in closer and ruffled his hair up good. “Mister smart guy over here knows his guns now! What’s this gun called then, huh?”

 

“It’s a Peacekeeper,” he retorted. She laughed again, snorting.

 

“Not quite, _mijo_.” She grinned at him and he grinned back. “This model is called a Peace _maker._ Not _keeper_.”

 

“ _Whatever_.”

 

The horizon had decided to show itself again as it hid the last of the reds and purples. But the fire in her eyes wasn’t a trick of the light this time. She took her arm away from his shoulders and held the gun with both hands and stared at it.

 

When her hand left the gun again, it reached over to wrap around one of his. Slowly, carefully, she pressed it into his hands. Jesse could hear his heart beating hard in his ears. Her hands never left his as she slowly raised the weapon to point at the cactus again. The gun was much heavier than he thought it would be. The tip of it weighed down like someone had hung a bunch of rocks off it, but she kept the line steady.

 

She shuffled closer to him until her chin was pressed into his shoulder. He could see her close one eye to aim. Her finger pushed his over the trigger and moved his thumb over the safety hammer, still locked. Then her hands retreated to the base of his wrists, helping to hold the weight of the gun and nothing more.

 

He swallowed thickly and pulled the safety down. He squinted like he’d seen her do before and stared hard at the cactus. It had been there for years, since before he was born. Hadn’t changed much. Hadn’t moved. Hadn’t done shit.

 

Suddenly Jesse was angry. Angry that his Mama was stuck out here with this cactus and this house and Papa who had to up and go start dying on them. ‘A bad life,’ she’d said. His Mama didn’t deserve a bad life.

 

Time slowed as he adjusted the shot and when he pulled the trigger, it was without hesitation.

 

The sound of the gunshot scared him out of his reverie more than the kickback did. Still, it didn’t override seeing the top of the cactus blow off in chunks. He stared, eyes wide, feeling his Mama’s grin on his shoulder.

  
“You’ve got a good eye, _mijo_. Just like your Mama.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come yell at me about your headcanons at getmcfucked.tumblr.com. I'm pmuch always down to discuss Very Serious Jesse McCree. 
> 
> hanzo's coming in soon, I promise!


	3. Enter Jamie; Enter Hanzo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha uh. Sorry in advance. I did tell you that this was gunna be a bit darker. Tags have been updated accordingly. This one's a long'un too. Brace yourself.

* * *

 

 

> **AGENT: Jesse J. McCree  
> ** **LOG DATE:** _August 13th, 2076. 3:00am.  
> _ **LOCATION:** _Watchpoint, Gibraltar; Jesse’s room.  
> _ **SUBJECT:** _Misc.: Low Priority_

 

_ It always started with the coughing. Jesse sat upright in his worn-in cot. His room was sweltering. It wasn’t abnormal for a New Mexico summer but something about it was wrong. His chest heaved as he struggled to breathe, and when he put his arms around his sides he could feel his ribs. He grabbed his Mama’s gun from under his pillow.  _

 

_ He flung open his bedroom door like he expected something new. Like it was ever something new. He saw his Papa lit up in his chair like a bonfire and flames licking up the side of the wooden panels next to the TV, their shining lacquer only speeding up the process. Smoke should be billowing, but the air in the house was crystal clear.  _

 

_ He heard his Mama screaming.  _

 

_ He wanted to call out, to ask what was happening, but all he could do was cough. The heat pushed down on him like a heavy combat boot between his shoulder blades and he crawled towards the kitchenette, towards the door. Two men in Deadlock vests stood in the kitchenette and their teeth were too white. He couldn’t hear what they said so much as feel it as he followed the line of sight of their guns. He saw his Mama’s legs on the faux tile floor, but he wasn’t close enough to see her torso or face. She was pleading, backed up against the cabinets. She screamed like the wind in the mountains.  _

 

_ All he could do was cough.  _

 

Bang. 

 

_ Her legs slumped over. Too-white teeth got bigger and bigger. Flames licked up the side of his leg, but Jesse kept hurling himself towards the door. He could see the pale light of the New Mexico sun at high noon. He could see the yellow in the sand.  _

 

_ When he was outside, he could stand again,  could breathe and see again, but he still never saw it coming. He could hear the laughter of the men behind him as he staggered away like the fire hadn’t yet given up on catching him. The gun in his hand was searing and he held it so tight his skin might’ve melted to the metal.  _

 

_ His shadow flickered in front of him and Jesse wanted to scream at his younger self to run. To shoot it. To do _ anything. 

 

_ But like so many times before, that awful dusty diluted grey pushes through the sand like it was going through a flour sifter. First it was soft, then there was so much of it, too much of it. All the smoke that should have been in the house suddenly burst from his shadow and shoved itself into his eyes, his nose, passed his teeth until he was choking with it. All he could do was cough, but that just sucked the smoke in deeper.  _

 

_ His eyes were watering and he couldn’t breathe when the white mask started to form. He felt the metal talons of the claw around his neck and-- _

 

“Ingrate.” 

 

McCree woke up wheezing. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

> **AGENT: Jesse J. McCree  
> ** **LOG DATE:** _August 13th, 2076. 3:08am.  
> _ **LOCATION:** _Watchpoint, Gibraltar; kitchens.  
> _ **SUBJECT:** _Misc.: Low Priority_

 

Jesse McCree made coffee. Three shots of espresso, one cup americana, a quarter cup of sugar, and latte foam. It burned going down.

 

Jesse McCree had his first cigar since his last: one year, one month, two days and five hours ago. The smoke is thick and black like--

 

It burned going down. 

 

Jesse McCree was unafraid. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

> **AGENT: Jesse J. McCree  
> ** **LOG DATE:** _July 20th, 2052. 6:56pm  
> _ **LOCATION:** _About 15min south of Las Cruces, New Mexico  
> _ **SUBJECT:** _Personal History: Marked Confidential_

 

The warehouse was enormous. Crimped tin panels, wider than Jesse was tall, covered the roof like a quilt. The sun hit the metal at odd angles, making some lines look pitch black and others blindingly bright. He stared at the sand instead. 

 

“Jesus, look at him. He’s shaking.” 

 

It was one of the older boys who waited in the truck outside his house while it burned down. Not the one that tackled him to the ground. That one was taller and still in the truck. 

 

A rough hand grasped him by the shoulder hard enough to bruise and moved him forward. He wanted desperately to keep his eyes shut, but he had to stare down at his feet so he didn’t trip on the shackles around his ankles. They were old, a little rusty, and a little loose. The ones on his wrists weren’t. He couldn’t feel his fingertips, but he could feel blisters forming. 

 

He wondered if he’d live long enough for them to heal. 

 

He desperately tried to quell his shaking. 

 

The strong hand guided him around to the side of the warehouse. A few kids in their late teens lazed about on empty shipping crates with cigarettes hanging out of their mouths. A couple of them were playing cards. One of them was sleeping. Most of them were tattooed. All of them were heavily armed. He could feel their eyes on him as he passed and forced himself not to flinch. 

 

He and the boy with the strong hand rounded the corner before finally coming to a halt. Jesse focused on breathing. He didn’t focus on the man approaching them, or the rifle he had in his hands. He did not cry. 

 

“What’s this?” the man asked. 

 

“Mariana’s kid,” said the boy with the hand on his shoulder. 

 

The fire in Jesse’s gut was weak, but hearing his Mama’s name stoked it. He breathed in. He breathed out. And he succeeded in calming down just a little. He wouldn’t let his Mama down. Maybe there was still time, maybe he could still get back in time--

 

“Shit. Mariana has a kid?” the man said, whistling low. “ _ Shit _ .” 

 

“Yeeeep.” The boy with his hand on his shoulder popped the ‘p’ like bubblegum. 

 

He sounded older than Jesse, but not by much. Jesse summoned up his courage and snuck a glance at him. He had a long hooked nose with a stud piercing, thick eyebrows, and bored eyes. 

 

The boy caught him looking and sneered. Jesse made a point not to look away until it was clear that it wasn’t a flinch. He got a shove forward for his troubles and fell, scrambling to his knees. The cuffs yanked at his limbs painfully and sand started to settle into the reddened skin where they’ve left marks. The fire grew just enough to stop the shaking completely. He clenched his teeth and blinked rapidly to keep his eyes from welling up. 

 

Jesse tried to move to his feet, but a heavy boot settled in the middle of the chains between his wrists and pinned him in place. 

 

The man knelt down to his level. Jesse clenched his jaw furiously and stared at the sand. A calloused hand under his chin forced his face up, and it was pride alone that let Jesse stare the man in the face. He was gaunt in the way starved horses are, with pale grey eyes and as many laugh lines as frown lines. Salt and pepper hair was cropped short and messy. His beard was patchy around some old-looking scars. His mouth was turned down into a sharp frown. 

 

“How old are you, brat?” 

 

Jesse didn’t answer. The hand lifted away from his chin just to slap him hard enough to make his face meet the sand. He couldn’t stop the cry that left his throat, but he pushed himself up immediately and shook the sand out of his hair. He stared at the man defiantly. The shaking was back. This time it wasn’t fear. 

 

The man slapped him again and Jesse managed to grit his teeth hard enough to stay silent. His whole face stung and there was sand in his eyes. When he pushed himself up on shaky elbows, the man slapped him down again, and again, and again. He heard someone far away chuckle. 

 

It occurred to him that he was probably going to die here, today. That his Mama was already dead. That his Papa died hours ago. That there was nothing he could do about it. It sucked the sound out of his ears so fast it left them ringing. He pushed himself up again, barely able to hold his own weight on wobbly arms, and met the man’s eyes again. 

 

He spat. 

 

The man’s eyebrows rose to his receding hairline. Jesse heard more laughs. The hand wrapped around his throat in a flash and squeezed just enough to cut off his air. 

 

“You lookin’ to die today, kid?” 

 

Jesse tried to hold in his choking, tried to keep his chest still as he fought for air. The man watched him blandly, as if strangling people behind the Deadlock warehouse was the most common thing in the world. A couple others started paying attention, but Jesse didn’t take his eyes off the man long enough to see their faces. If this was where he died, he wanted to memorize the face of his killer. 

 

The man let go just as Jesse started to lose vision. The gasp Jesse made was involuntary. His whole body twisted as he dry heaved all of the nothing in his gut onto the sand in front of him. A thick line of drool fell from his face and he couldn’t bring himself to care. 

 

The boot left his chains to connect sharply with his side. Jesse tried to stand up, but his body wouldn’t listen. Tears were streaming down his cheeks and he had sand in his mouth. 

 

“Shit, kid. You know who he is?” the boy who had his hand on Jesse’s shoulder asked. 

 

Jesse shuddered and shook on the ground for a minute before he could look up at him. “Deadlock,” he snarled. 

 

The boy and the man both laughed, and Jesse thought he might black out from anger alone. 

 

“No shit,” the boy said. “He’s the fuckin’ big boss, kid.” 

 

_ I’ll kill you _ , Jesse thinks.  _ I’ll kill you I’ll kill you I’ll kill you-- _

 

“I don’t think he’s scared,” the man said in a way that made Jesse feel like a zoo animal. “Look at his eyes. Look at… I mean look at this whole mess.” 

 

They both laughed again, and some of the other people that surrounded their little scene joined in. 

 

The man sat back down in front of Jesse again, just out of reach. Jesse’s ribs hurt, his lungs wouldn’t work right, and he couldn’t make his arms push himself up, so he glared with every last bit of strength he had. The man didn’t seem bothered by this. The fire in Jesse’s gut threatened to consume him like it did his house. 

 

“Listen, brat. We didn’t know Mariana had a kid.” He gestured at Jesse with a limp hand. “I dunno if we would’a called a hit on her if we knew, but. Too late for that now, I s’pect.” 

 

_ \--kill you I’ll kill you I’ll kill you I’ll-- _

 

“Your mom was a piece of fuckin’ work, y’know that? She was cookin’ the books something fierce. If she hadn’t gotten so ambitious, we prolly never woulda caught her neither.” The man’s smile was drier than the desert itself. “Didn’t have a choice but to cut our losses. Don’t mean she wasn’ part of the Deadlock family though, y’see?”

 

Jesse did not see. 

 

“And who knows; with all the times I fucked her, you might even be my actual son. What do you think of that, eh? You an actual sonova whore, brat?” 

 

More laughter. 

 

Jesse’s voice wasn’t working, but he tried, he tried--

 

“What was that?” The man reached out to drag him up by his hair. Jesse’s mouth dropped open in a wordless cry that he immediately tried to swallow down. “Couldn’t hear you. Speak up.”

 

“ _ Fuck you. _ ” 

 

The man dropped him and Jesse fell hard. Coughs racked his body and hurt down to his bones. When he looked back up at the man, he saw him running a hand over his face. The man gestured something to the boy and Jesse saw his Mama’s gun in the man’s hand. He lunged for it as best he could but the man kept it out of his reach easily. Someone stepped on the chain between his ankle cuffs and he felt the weight of a body sitting on his back. A different hand yanked him up by his hair again. 

 

As if Jesse would take his eyes off the man in front of him for even a second. 

 

The man looked over the weapon just as carefully as he looked over Jesse, going back and forth between the two like he’s not sure which to purchase. He checked the chambers, tapped each of the six bullets. He snapped the chamber back into place, satisfied. 

 

Finally, he levelled the gun at Jesse, squinting down it with one eye open like he would have to aim from three feet away. Jesse heard the safety click off. He clenched his jaw as hard as he could. He was scared again. 

 

_ This is it this is it this is it-- _

 

The gun tilted back and rested on the man’s shoulder, nozzle pointed skyward. 

 

“So, you can either die out here like the sonova whore piece of shit you seem to want to be,” the man said, “or you can swallow your pride and make yourself useful. We always have need of extra hands ‘round here. You pull your weight--what, all ten pounds of it? Hah!--and you’ll get a roof over your head and food when you earn it.” 

 

Jesse was about to snap out something stupid, but the man held up a hand to stop him. 

 

“ _ Ah, ah, ah! _ Think ‘bout it, dumbass. You think your mom wanted you shot like a rabid dog, huh?” 

 

The fire in his gut was doused in an instant. Ice crystals grew between his ribs and he couldn’t stop the deluge of tears falling down his face now. He was scared, so  _ scared-- _

 

“That’s it. Now you’re getting it.” The man spoke gently, like Jesse was a spooked horse. “So I’m gunna ask you again and you get to choose, a’ight? Now lets try this again. How old are you?”

 

Jesse squeezed his eyes shut. He thought of the fire, he thought of the smell of rotting flesh that he knew was his Papa. He thought about the splatter on the faux tile in the kitchenette, blood, his Mama’s blood. He heard her screams. He didn’t want to give in, but his lips were moving before he could stop them. 

 

“Thirteen,” Jesse heard himself rasp. Shame froze his insides and made his cheeks burn.

 

Another low whistle. “Damn, kid. That’s  _ fucked up. _ ” 

 

Laughter again. More of it. Jesse couldn’t open his eyes. 

 

The hand was on his face again, gentle this time. “You look just like your mom, y’know that? S’fuckin eerie.”

 

He kept his eyes shut. Don’t kill me please don’t kill me please please don’t kill me--

 

“Look at me, brat.” 

 

He did. He couldn’t help the broken sob that escaped him. 

 

“You’re a loyal shit, ain’t ya?” The man smiled at him now. “S’good. Nothin’ to be ashamed of. We could use more o’ that. So am I gunna have to keep calling you ‘brat’, or do you got a name?” 

 

“Jamie,” he lied. He wasn’t sure why he lied. “Jamie Martinez.” 

 

“S’good to meet you, Jamie. Welcome to the family.” The man patted his cheek fondly. It still stung from his earlier abuse, and Jesse could feel his eye swelling shut. The man stood and tucked his Mama’s gun into his waistline. “My name’s John, but you can call me ‘sir’, got it?” 

 

Jesse said nothing, just sobbed silently. A boot nudged his bruised ribs.

 

“I said, got it?” 

 

“Yes,” Jesse breathed. 

 

“Yes, what?” 

 

“Yes,  sir. ” He couldn’t help the way he spat the word. The man didn’t seem to mind. 

 

“Someone get Jamie out of his cuffs. He’s family now, y’hear?” the man said loudly to their onlookers. More quietly, “Thirteen fucking years old. Christ. Definitely Mariana’s kid.” 

 

Jesse’s heart swelled with badly-needed pride.

 

* * *

 

 

> **AGENT: Jesse J. McCree  
> ** **LOG DATE:** _August 13th, 2076. 8:41am.  
> _ **LOCATION:** _Watchpoint, Gibraltar; kitchens.  
> _ **SUBJECT:** _Misc.: Low Priority_

 

The coffee machine whined again. Something about needing more water, or more beans, or more time on this earthly realm before Jesse McCree added about six more commands to its lineup. He didn’t feel particularly inclined to demonstrate mercy this morning. He held a lit cigar held firm to the corner of his mouth and masterfully avoided letting any of the ash or smoke get into the huevos rancheros. It wasn’t the best he’d ever made (that honour goes to that one time in Bulgaria) since they don’t have any spicy chorizo stocked in the kitchen (a damn shame), but he’s made do. 

 

He heard a sputter to his right and shot the coffee machine an impatient glare. Still had the latte foam left to go. Without interrupting his stride, he grabbed the sack of white sugar and poured about a quarter cup of it into the scalding black coffee that had mostly filled his metal canteen. 

 

That’s when he noticed it; something in the kitchen was  _ humming _ . 

 

He put his good hand on the side of the oven, but it was cool and still. He blinked over at the microwave. Nothing. He gave the coffee machine a suspicious look that was promptly interrupted by a neon flash of green and a bass line loud enough to rival some of the grenades he’d thrown. 

 

A young man with dreads stared at him like McCree had just offered to introduce the kid to Clint Eastwood himself (God rest his soul). His eyes then locked onto the food sizzling on the stove, glittering eagerly when he looked back up at McCree. Shock and awe apparently forgotten and he demonstrated no qualms about stepping forward and grabbing McCree’s right hand in the most excited handshake he’d ever experienced. 

 

“You must be Jesse McCree!” the kid said. McCree focused on trying to seem friendly, which for the moment, mostly means not gaping. “I’ve seen your wanted posters! You look exactly the same.” 

 

“You’ve got me dead to rights, kiddo,” McCree grinned. “Spend a lot of time lookin’ at bounties?” 

 

As if only just realizing how odd his introductory statement was, the kid’s eyes went wide and he waved his hands placatingly. “Oh, no! No, not at all. I mean, yes, as of late, but only because I’m a little worried I might be on one, y’know? Creepy, but  _ kinda flattering. _ ” 

 

McCree raised a brow and took a moment to look him over.  _ Dreads with gold caps at the end, one earbud in his ear still blasting something at an ungodly volume, prosthetic legs, slight Portuguese accent--... Ah. _

 

“You must be Lúcio Correia dos Santos, then.” 

 

The kid looked likely to faint. “Wait. Am I on the list?” 

 

“No, no,” McCree laughed and turned back to cooking. He carefully ashed the end of his cigar in a bowl he’d set by the stove. “Not yet, anyway. Heard about your stunts, though. Impressive stuff.” 

 

Lúcio’s jaw dropped. “You’ve heard of me?” 

 

McCree looked at him briefly, wondering if he maybe should’ve pretended not to know who he was.  _ Nah, Lúcio was famous enough. He’d been on the news a few times. _ “That I have, kid.” 

 

“That’s insane!” Lúcio jumped in place, still irritatingly close to the stove. McCree tried to casually adjust his weight so that it encouraged the kid to move elsewhere. Thankfully, it works. But even as the kid flopped down on one of the kitchen chairs he was positively vibrating with energy. “ _ The _ Jesse McCree has heard of me!  _ Hah! _ This is the best day ever!” 

 

McCree snorted and couldn’t help the smile that crossed his face. “Would you be amenable to breakfast made by  _ The _ Jesse McCree?” 

 

If McCree put a little too smug of an emphasis on the ‘the’, Lúcio was kind enough not to mention it. 

 

“God, yes.” Lucio jumped up on his feet again until McCree waved him back down. 

 

“I got it, I got it. I ain’t so old that I can’t carry plates anymore.” 

 

“The Jesse McCree has heard of me, and has just made me breakfast.” Lúcio stared at the plate in front of him like he might cry. 

 

“Hey now, I was makin’ breakfast for a general populace. Don’t go makin’ it special.” McCree teased. 

 

Lúcio grinned in that goofy, sunshine-y way that McCree could never quite pull off. “Oh yeah? What do I gotta do to get on The Jesse McCree’s special specific breakfast list?” 

 

McCree made a big show of thinking about it. He stuck his metal hand directly into the hot pan to flip over a link of regular  _ not-chorizo _ sausage as he audibly hummed and hawed. He pretended not to hear the awed gasp behind him and told himself he didn’t relish it quite as much as he did. “I dunno. Maybe one of your famous mixtapes would do the trick, Mr. Santos.” 

 

Lúcio beamed at him. “Sure, sure. So long as you tell me how you got that sick arm!” 

 

“Ah, y’know. It was just the age old battle of man versus heavily armed man on PCP. There was a chainsaw involved. The usual thing.” 

 

Lúcio’s laugh was so loud and genuine that it caught McCree off-guard just enough to pry a few sincere chuckles out of him. 

 

“You did  _ what _ ?” Angela’s voice broke through the giggles like an ice pick. 

 

“Nice to see you too, Miss Mercy,” McCree drawled, hoping to distract her, but he’s already lost that battle. Angela briskly walked over to him from the kitchen entrance. She snatched his arm up to examine it and he tried to keep turning the sausages one-handed. “Aw, shit. Ang, don’t you start freakin’ out on me--”

 

“When did this happen?” She asked sharply. 

 

“Sometime between when I left Blackwatch and this morning,” McCree retorted unhelpfully. 

 

She scowled at him. “If I am to be your doctor, Agent McCree--”

 

He interrupted, “Oh, don’t you ‘Agent McCree’ me, Ang.”

 

Angela continued right over the top of him. “--then I intend to hear the entire story. Is that clear?” 

 

The way she said it told him that this was going to be a problem. His eyes narrowed and he was about to snap back with something particularly nasty when he heard Lúcio pipe up again. 

 

“What do you know?  _ The _ Jesse McCree makes fantastic breakfast.” Lúcio grinned at him again, mischief gleaming in the corners of his eyes. The kid turned to Angela and moved to take her hand in the same firm handshake he’d caught McCree with earlier. Except this time, it required that Angela let go of McCree’s arm in order to be polite. “If you’re the Ms. Angela Ziegler I’ve heard so much about, then it is an honour to meet you. My name is Lúcio, and I believe we will be working together.” 

 

_ I’ll be damned _ , McCree thought. Angela stared at Lúcio, eyes wide, stuttering a bit before she remembered her manners.  _ It worked. _

 

McCree slipped away quietly while he had the chance, catching and returning the wink Lúcio threw his way before he decided to explore the base a little more thoroughly. He liked the new kid. 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

> **AGENT: Jesse J. McCree  
> ** **LOG DATE:** _August 14th, 2076. 3:02am.  
> _ **LOCATION:** _Watchpoint, Gibraltar; Roof of the Supply Building.  
> _ **SUBJECT:** _Misc.: Low Priority_

 

It was sometime past 3:00am when McCree woke up next. He’d dozed off on the supply building’s flat roof. Of all the buildings, it’s the one closest to the sea. It wasn’t the same as the dunes in a proper desert, but the sound of waves and the smell of salt could knock him out in minutes. 

 

He pushed himself up gingerly and stretched slowly to ease the soreness out of his shoulders. He let his chin drop to his chest and rolled his neck with practiced grace until he heard as well as felt the satisfying pop. Once standing, he twisted to pop his spine and that’s when he saw him. 

 

There was someone crouched on an adjacent rooftop staring at McCree with--of all things--a loaded recurve bow. The man wore all black and had abandoned an instrument casing beside him. His hair was tied up in a loose knot at the back of his skull showcasing a fresh undercut. 

 

The look was decently stylish and flattering but at the moment, McCree was more concerned about the weapon. He was very aware of the weight of Peacekeeper at his hip, but if he moved for it now… _ No. Bad idea. Get closer to the target. Archers are useless in short range.  _

 

McCree slowly raised his hands up in surrender. The man’s eyes narrowed and the drawn arrow is pulled back tighter.  _ Suspicious asshole, ain’t ya? _

 

But stranger doesn’t loose the arrow.  _ That’s something. _ McCree raised his hands above his head. And it was the lack-of-arrow-in-the-face made him think he could get bolder.

 

“Hey there, friend. What can I do for you?” McCree’s voice carried sharply against the sounds of the ocean. 

 

The bow tilts just a little lower and McCree moved to take just the smallest step forward. 

 

_ Mistake. _

 

The arrow whistles through the air and it was only due to years of experience that McCree ducked just as it pierced through the spot where his head had been. He drew Peacekeeper and had it trained on the spot where the stranger had been but when his vision caught up to his movement, the stranger was gone. 

 

“Shit.” 

 

He looked around frantically and only just caught a hint of movement  _ there _ . McCree steeled himself and jumped onto the fire escape, skipping ladder rungs as he hurtled towards the ground. He dashed after the black shadow moving swiftly between the Overwatch base buildings.  _ This guy is either the luckiest bastard alive, or he knows the grounds well _ , McCree thought.  _ Not sure which is worse.  _

 

He rounded another corner but he’d lost sight of the man. He ran forward another block, hoping to cut him off but the alleyways between the buildings were as barren and empty as they were when he’d arrived. 

 

“Shit.  _ Shit. _ ”

 

“Lose your hat already?” 

 

McCree whirled around and trained his gun on… Genji.  _ Motherfucking Genji. _ McCree lowered his weapon and scowled. “Is this some sorta prank of yours?” 

 

The cyborg tilted his head in confusion. “Prank?” 

 

“Yeah, Mr. Dark n’ Mysterious sent to scare the piss outta me.” McCree waved his hand in the vague direction of the supply warehouse. “Ha _ ha _ , very cute.” 

 

“I’m  _ adorable _ ,” Genji agreed. “However, that was no prank of mine, I’m sorry to say. But I will take credit for it if you are seeking someone to do so. Last I recalled, it was quite difficult to pull a fast one on Jesse McCree.” 

  
  


Jesse rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. He shoved Peacekeeper roughly back in her holster before he held his arms out wide. He could’ve sworn he could actually see Genji’s lights glow brighter for a split second before the cyborg downright sprinted at him and leapt into his arms like he wasn’t mostly made of metal. Jesse spun Genji to offset some of the momentum. And maybe, just  _ maybe _ because he missed him a little. 

 

“You have a fake arm, Jesse,” Genji groused in his ear. “The cyborg thing is  _ my _ aesthetic.” 

 

“Apparently so is  _ meditation _ ,” Jesse retorted. “You  _ nerd. _ ” 

 

They stood there quietly for a moment, neither willing to acknowledge the warble in both their voices. 

 

“I missed you, Jesse.” Genji finally said quietly. 

 

“Yeah,” Jesse nodded, cleared his throat and stepping away. He huffed and dug around in his pocket for the cigar he’d stashed away. He lit it quick and took a long draw before saying, “I guess not having you around made things suck a little sometimes.” 

 

A light metal fist tapped his shoulder playfully. “I was not sure you would answer the recall.”

 

Jesse snorted. “You n’ everyone else, apparently.” 

 

Genji shrugged. “It would have been justified to ignore it.” 

 

“Oh?” Jesse raised his eyebrows. 

 

“You are not an idiot, Jesse, and I am not going to humour you playing dumb,” Genji said. He looked down at his feet and shifted his weight a little. “The people important to you at Overwatch have since perished. There is no shame in wanting distance from that.” 

 

“Not all of them,” Jesse said faster than he could think it through. Again, Genji seemed to glow brighter for a minute. 

 

The cyborg gestured for Jesse to follow him. They walked together in silence. Smoke from Jesse’s cigar trailed behind them. Genji’s gears whirred softly enough that they could’ve easily been mistaken for the sounds of the waves if you didn’t know what to listen for. But Jesse knew what to listen for. And God, he had missed listening for it.

 

They end up on the beach. Predictable, really. It was where they had always hung out before… Before  _ everything _ . Genji flopped down onto the sand like it was home. 

 

“Are you going to tell me why you are stealing my aesthetic?” He asked, visor tilted towards Jesse. 

 

Jesse frowns.

 

_ Eaten by a shark, _ he thought. 

 

_ Lost a fight with a garbage disposal.  _

 

_ A whole swarm of really angry honeybees.  _

 

“That bad, huh?” Genji’s voice seemed even quieter with the waves close enough to muffle it. McCree huffed and stared at the ocean. Genji didn’t press the issue and McCree was grateful. Genji’s hand reached up to remove his face plate, and he placed it carefully on the flat of his stomach to avoid getting it sandy. It’s a long few minutes before he spoke again. “As glad as I am to see you, I think you did not return to Overwatch just to see me again.” 

 

“Aw, Genji, that ain’t fair--” 

 

“You misunderstand me,” Genji interrupted. “You are seeking answers, yes? For what happened.” A small pause. “About the explosion.” 

 

Jesse’s jaw clenched and he was glad he’d decided to fix his eyes on the ocean. Genji always had a way of reading through his poker faces like they were shitty paper mache masks. “Among other things.”

 

The cigar was almost burnt all the way through. Jesse looked at it critically and decided that there was enough fire in his chest for one night. He twisted away from Genji to stamp it out and saw the stranger again. This time, he had his bow slung across his torso and looked terrified to have been spotted. Nothing at all like the man that was crouched and ready to kill. Jesse stared at him coolly but made no move to pursue him. The man nodded gratefully. He backed up into the alley, and disappeared again. 

 

_ Interesting, _ McCree thought.

 

‘ _ Interesting, _ ’ Reyes’ voice agreed.

 

A hunch was starting to make itself known to McCree. He turned back to Genji with a shit-eating grin.

 

“So what’s this I hear about you forgiving your fuckface of a brother? Y’know, the one with the bullshit hipster haircut and a longbow?”

 

Genji’s attention snapped to him in shock and for a moment he actually looked like he was going to ask Jesse how he knew. Instead, Genji slammed his head back into the sand and groaned loudly. Jesse cracked up. Missing arm or no, Jesse suddenly felt like maybe he’d broken even. 

 


	4. Brother in Arms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for implied underage sexual activity. Nothing explicit, and honestly it was written to be just implied making out. Stupid teenager stuff. But it could definitely be read the other way, so. Here's your heads up.

* * *

 

 

 

 

> **AGENT: Jesse J. McCree  
>  ****LOG DATE:** _August 14th, 2076. 5:01am.  
>  _**LOCATION:** _Watchpoint, Gibraltar; beachside.  
>  _**SUBJECT:** _Misc.: Low Priority_

 

“I am not an idiot,” Genji had argued at one point.

 

Jesse had snorted. “You’re doin’ a great impression of one.” Jesse held both pointer fingers up on either side of his head to mimic Genji’s visor… _things_. He pitched his voice a bit higher. “I’m Genji, and one time I got _murdered_ to _death--_!”

 

“Jesse, oh my god--”

 

“--so I thought I’d just invite my murderer over for lunch so we could chit chat in a heavily armed base! This is okay because we’re _biologically related!_ ”

 

“We are not going to chit chat,” Genji snapped. “Forgiveness is not friendship. And I sound nothing like that.”

 

“I’m adorable,” Jesse mimicked Genji’s voice from earlier that evening with enough accuracy to make the real live Genji himself cringe. He let his hands drop back to his chest and quit the silly impressions for the moment, though. “If you ain’t gunna chat, what’s the point of this?”

 

“Are you kidding? According to you my brother--who was famous for the giant stick up his ass--has an undercut--”

 

“And piercings.”

 

“--and piercings! That alone was worth the whole ordeal. I cannot wait to see it all in person.”

 

Jesse rolled his eyes. “Be serious, Gen.”

 

Genji laughed. “I am, actually. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t looking forward to that with all my heart. It is… What is that crap you always throw around? Being the principle of the matter?”

 

“This is different,” Jesse couldn’t help the sudden shift in his mood. It wasn’t funny now that Genji was laughing. He knew it was petty but he didn’t care. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t shoot the bastard on sight.”

 

Genji laughed again, but the laughter faded pretty quickly when he saw Jesse’s scowl. “You can’t be serious.”

 

“Deadly.”

 

Genji’s eyes narrowed at him. “That is a terrible pun.”

 

Jesse didn’t respond. He just stared at the younger Shimada brother and waited. Genji’s expression flashed anger, outrage, then that grim irritation he always got when Jesse insisted on doing something stupid. One time, he’d gotten that expression after using a scrap piece of shrapnel to whack a flashbang across several rooftops to hit a sniper like the world’s most dangerous game of baseball. He’d gotten a real earful on the hangar ride home. But it had worked.

 

He didn’t actually plan on shooting Hanzo so long as Genji was the one who had invited him (he did have _some_ manners), but he also seriously doubted he would regret it if he did. Which meant there was still something about this that Genji wasn’t explaining.

 

Plus, he’d been shot at already and wasn’t feeling particularly patient about it anymore.

 

Genji’s jaw whirred softly when he clenched his teeth, and he squeezed his eyes shut in frustration. Jesse could practically hear him counting to ten before he opened his eyes again. He braced himself to get another earful and kept his weight carefully balanced so that he could dodge any metal fists that so happened to come his way. He needed to push Genji into spilling the information, but that didn’t mean he needed a broken nose in the process.

 

What he was not prepared for was the slow, careful sigh that Genji pushed out through his nose. The younger man’s eyes fluttered open and the fight had left his features. He looked tired, mostly, but there was this weird touch of peace to it. Something impossibly foreign to Genji’s face.

 

“I think I understand why you are so afraid of this,” Genji said slowly.

 

Jesse guffawed. “Afraid? I ain’t afraid of your brother. He’s almost forty and just now going through his punk phase. What’s he gunna do? Play The Ramones real loud?”

 

“Jesse, hush.” Genji said gently. It was a tone Jesse had never heard him use and he was a little alarmed at how well it worked. He scrambled to think of what to do while Genji just kept going. “The explanation here is not a simple one. But if you will be patient, I will do my best. Can you do that?”

 

Jesse nodded dumbly.

 

“I was in the middle of a mission when I heard the news about the explosion. It was a standard delivery of a payload and I just… could not bring myself to complete it. I abandoned. Hearing about Jack and Gabriel...” Genji’s eyes flashed to Jesse’s to gauge his reaction. Jesse kept his face carefully neutral just out of spite. “Something about their death made me realize I was still alive. It was something that had not really sunk in. I was so angry at Hanzo for what he did I had forgotten that he had ultimately failed. But my anger prevented me from living more than his blades ever did. Which is not to say what he did wasn’t still the cause but.”

 

Genji huffed out another sigh. “I am getting ahead of myself. The point is that I was tired of being angry all the time. I was still alive--and out of the reach of my clan for the first time ever! When it first dawned on me that I could do whatever I wanted without any consequence, well.” He paused to snicker. “Lets just say I’m no longer welcome in Moscow.”

 

Jesse was more impressed than he wanted to admit. He opened his mouth to ask what the fuck the cyborg had done, but Genji just held up a hand asking him to wait.

 

“I ate, drank, and fucked my way through the better half of the first year after Overwatch.” He shrugged. “I will not lie--I do not regret most of it. But it did make me realize that there was still something wrong. On a whim, I decided to seek out the monks of Shambali. It seemed stupid, but why not? It was there that I met my master, Zenyatta.”

 

“I knew there was somethin’ I was forgetting. I had been meanin’ to ask you about this whole master business--”

 

“Jesse,” Genji’s voice was a warning. Jesse’s jaw snapped shut, but he glowered. He made a dramatic motion with his hand for Genji to continue. “We spent weeks fasting, meditating, talking… Everything that I had barely any patience for. It got gradually easier, but that feeling in my gut--whatever is left of it--wouldn’t leave me be. I had withheld no information from my master. There were no secrets between us. In theory, I ought to have been finally at peace. It took a while, but finally my master identified the feeling. I was lonely.”

 

“‘My student,’ he said one morning. I could tell he was uneasy in how he held himself. ‘I have news that may… Perturb you.’”

 

“I asked what it was. He handed me a tablet, open to a page about bounties--and yes Jesse, you were still on the top of the list, don’t worry--and pointed to the second person on the list.”

 

Realization dawned on Jesse and he felt his eyebrows raise. That was why Hanzo had seemed familiar.

 

Genji nodded. “It was my brother. More interestingly, the bounty was posted by my former clan. He had not only abandoned them, but was actively taking them out.”

 

Jesse did not miss the small smile on Genji’s face and wondered if that was what Zenyatta had seen too.

 

“My master suggested that perhaps I missed him. How preposterous, I thought! He tried to kill me! But my master in his wisdom pointed out that, more than anyone on this earth, Hanzo understood what I had gone through. He too grew up under the thumb of our father--more so than me, even. He too did not know what a normal childhood looked like--until he left the clan, he could not have known what the world looked like outside of Shimada castle.”

 

Genji’s eyes were sad now. He looked somewhere into the middle space in front of him with such feeling that Jesse looked back to the sea. It felt too intimate to intrude on, somehow.

 

“For most of my life he was all I had,” Genji’s voice was painfully soft. Jesse swallowed. “And you, Jesse, have been a brother to me in ways that I never knew a brother could be. But there is something to be said for…” Genji trailed off helplessly.

 

Jesse cleared his throat. He forced a smile and almost made it look genuine. He couldn’t hold eye contact long enough to pull it off. “It’s alright, Gen. I ain’t concerned about losing my ranking amongst your favourites. ‘Specially to someone with an undercut.”

 

“Nor should you ever worry,” Genji said with a ferocity that was admittedly comforting. Jesse reached out to put a metal hand on his shoulder. That seemed to appease him. He took a deep breath before continuing. “I am still alive, Jesse. And so is he. Somehow we both escaped the Shimada clan.”

 

He felt Genji shrug under his prosthetic hand.

 

“I cannot bring myself to waste that.”

 

Jesse stayed silent. It made sense. Damnit, _it made sense._ And Jesse _hated_ it. He hated that he would’ve withstood hell worse than Genji saw from Hanzo’s blades at the hands of his Mama if he got to spend one more day with her. He hated that he understood. He hated Hanzo for ever making Genji use that soft sad voice that was so unlike the spitfire he’d met forever ago.

 

He sorta hated that Genji had found peace without him.

 

 _Nah_ . Jesse reprimanded himself sharply. _Ain’t Genji’s fault. I’m just tired n’ cranky._

 

“Do you understand now?” Genji sat up and looked at him worriedly. “Will you refrain from shooting my only living family?”

 

Jesse blinked. He hadn’t realized he’d left Genji hanging in the silence. “Shit, sorry, Gen. Was just thinkin’ is all. Yeah, I won’t shoot him. You’ve got my word n’all that.”

 

Genji was still peering at him with such raw insecurity on his face that it made him look twenty years younger.

 

“Yeah. Yeah, I think I understand.” Jesse said quietly.

 

The relief in Genji was immediate and obvious. He laid back on the sand and let his eyes flutter closed for just a moment before opening them to look at Jesse with a sly grin.

 

“Now, I am not exactly happy with Hanzo,” Genji said with far too much innocence.

 

Jesse felt his lips quirk upwards. “Is that so?”

 

“It is.” Genji nodded sagely. “So if you just so happened to want to give him a difficult time…”

 

“Who, me?” Jesse gave Genji his best offended southern belle impression. He was rewarded with a sharp laugh. “Why, Mister Shimada, I would _never_ give someone a hard time.”

 

They fell back into easy laughter and lighter topics. No one brought up Hanzo again. No one brought up the explosion. No one brought up Gabe.

 

It wasn’t long after that Genji insisted on herding Jesse back to his dorm. Something something the human body needs so many hours of sleep, something something. Jesse had half-heartedly pointed out that he technically was only about four fifths human now, but Genji was hearing none of it. So Jesse had stayed in his room for a full hour until he started prying open his window.

 

The corner room was perfectly situated for his needs. The window without a view lead directly into the inner pathways between the buildings of the base. In fact, it was directly adjacent to Winston’s lab.

 

He took a small brand new, _shitty_ , off-brand tablet with him and parked himself in between two of the reserve energy generators. The network signal was weak, but he could just barely catch it. It didn’t take long to find Athena’s files. He keyed in Winston’s access code.

 

SEARCH: **GABRIEL REYES**

 

  * 48,300,215 files.



 

Jesse downloaded them all.

 

He didn’t make it back to his room until 6:00AM. Dangerously close to early morning jog time for Lena, but he had his window firmly back in place by 6:17AM.

 

He took an extra thirty minutes to remove the chip that let his off-brand tablet connect to any networks, just in case. He crushed it with his metal hand, just in case. And he spent an extra forty five minutes putting the plastic piece of shit back together until it looked brand new. Better than brand new. Still, he tucked it under his mattress before placing his hat over his eyes again to sleep.

 

_Just in case, just in case._

 

 

* * *

 

 

> **AGENT: Jesse J. McCree  
>  ****LOG DATE:** _August 13th, 2054. 12:10pm.  
>  _**LOCATION:** _About 15min south of Las Cruces, New Mexico.  
>  _**SUBJECT:** _Personal History: Marked Confidential_

  


Jamie Martinez turned 15 today. A fact that he had completely forgotten. This was remarkably easy to do since Jamie Martinez had a bad case of being entirely fictional. As of late, this was gradually becoming less and less of an issue. Jesse McCree had begun dying a slow painful death following the day John brought him into the Deadlock family.

 

And here sat Jamie, a mess of hormones shaped like a beanpole, with the Deadlock skull spread proudly tattooed on his left forearm. His ears were pierced six times each, with an assortment of tiny metal bands, bars, and dots. He’d grown taller, too. He towered over most everyone in the gang, but he was all spindly limbs with no meat. He hadn’t cut his hair since joining, either. It had been pretty shaggy, but now it reached midway down his back. He had to keep it back in a braid, else it would floof out something fierce in the desert heat.

 

He’d gotten a couple jeers and jabs at first, but the girls his age didn’t seem to mind it. Couple’a fellas too. And he had the hickies to prove it. That ended _that_ discussion real quick.

 

Jamie was unfathomably proud of the stubble that had started dusting his chin and was even more so about being the best mechanic in all of Deadlock. Ain’t nothin’ designed to kill that Jamie wasn’t designed to fix. Jamie Martinez lived in these details.

 

In the same way, Jesse McCree lived in the smoke. He pulled hard on the flimsy cigarette Marco had rolled for him and relished the way it burned his lungs. It smelled sharply in the way only cheap tobacco could, but it still smelled like Mama. It still burned like home.

 

His heart didn’t tug painfully every time he thought of it now. Plenty of kids came into Deadlock way worse. Marco’d been orphaned after an omnic attack. He wasn’t even old enough to walk when his parents had been crushed to death. He didn’t even have memories of them.

 

Jesse would always have the smoke.

 

But today, Jamie Martinez turned 15 because apparently, Jamie Martinez was born on August 13th.

 

“The fuck you mean, you ain’t planned nothing?” Marco demanded beside him. Jamie shrugged and Marco shoved him lightly. “It’s yer fuckin birthday, man. You gotta do something.”

 

“Don’t gotta do shit,” Jamie said blandly. “Ain’t that the point?”

 

“Nah, nah, that’s bullshit.” Marco waved his hand. “I know you ain’t ever left this goddamn base, so I know you wouldn’t be able to recognize fun if it bit you in the nuts.”

 

Jamie snorted loudly and choked a little on his exhale. “Anyone ever tell you you’re a fuckin’ poet, Marc?”

 

“Every damn day,” Marco grinned, showing off a couple of his missing teeth. Downside of working in the field. You got paid more, but you came back with less.

 

Neither Jamie nor Jesse had any desire to take part in that.

 

“So here’s what we’re gunna do.” Marco’s rolled cig hung from his mouth just barely balanced. Full lips pinched at the side to keep it in place and Marco rattled off some ill advised bullshit plans for Jamie’s birthday. It was kinda cute. “You listenin’?”

 

“Uhhh…” Jamie stalled. He felt a flush in his cheeks and distracted himself with another hard pull on his own cig. The burn grounded him. He got his confidence back in a second. “Do I gotta be? Anything that comes outta your mouth has to be the dumbest shit I ever heard. Think you got kicked in the head too often.”

 

“S’why I’m so handsome,” Marco grinned at him. There were those butterflies again. It was like the incident with Sarah all-fuckin-over again. Jamie swallowed hard. “You jus’ meet me out here ‘bout midnight and I’ll take care of the rest, aight?”

 

Jamie looked away from Marco and into the middle space in front of him. He pressed his mouth into a grim line, trying to think of some excuse to avoid this crap.

 

 _Would rather not die in an unfortunate accident involving cocaine, strippers, and an aquarium, he thought._ A little honest.

 

 _I don’t actually want to leave base til I’m ready to leave this shithole for good._ More honest.

 

 _It ain’t my goddamn birthday._ Most honest.

 

He clicked his tongue against his teeth and sighed in defeat. Marco whooped loudly beside him and Jamie was already regretting his concession.

 

In front of them, some of the older men were unloading a truck full of new weapons. Shotguns, mostly. From the looks of it, unmarked ones too. No brand, no serial number… No ballistic signature. Ideal. Jamie rolled the cigarette back and forth between his fingers.

 

A gaggle of the Deadlock’s field workers hovered around the shipment, eyeing the new steel with hungry looks. Jamie recognized three of them. One was Sarah (complicated), another was Jeff (also complicated). The last one, he didn’t know his name. But both Jamie and Jesse would’ve recognized him anywhere.

 

You don’t forget the face of the guy that pulled the trigger on your Mama.

 

John strode through the field agents and plucked one of the bigger guns from the pile. It was an Avaris 3500, one of those new pulse rifles. Still had the weight and shape of a sawed off shotgun, but if you kept it in good shape, you’d never have to worry about reloading in battle ever again.

 

‘Course if you didn’t keep it in good shape, it had an awful knack for backfiring.

 

Jamie pulled in another burning lungful to try to temper Jesse’s wildly beating heart. _This is it,_ Jesse screamed. _Jam the gun. Make him pay, make him pay, make him pay._

 

The smoke soothed him, but not enough to stop him from jumping when Marco prodded his arm.

 

“Whatcha thinkin about, Martinez?” Marco asked. “Starin’ at Sarah’s ass real hard.”

 

Jamie blinked at him, then shook his head. “Nah. Just can’t wait to get my hands on that Avaris. Heard good things.”

 

* * *

 

Marco had been right, as much as Jamie hated to admit it. The night out was fun as shit. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d let go so much. He caught himself accidentally telling the stripper his name was Jesse.

 

Marco had laughed and punched him in the shoulder. ‘ _Good thinking, man_ ,’ he’d said. ‘ _Fake name. Fuckin’ clever._ ’

 

Jamie’s knees still wobbled and he was pretty sure he was gunna be feeling that Romulan Ale shit for the next goddamn month. But he needed a smoke before he went to sleep. Had been itchin’ for one since they’d left the club anyway. And it wasn’t like he hadn’t snuck out for a cig before.

 

As fate would have it, this time was different. Seemed like Jamie’s birthday marked something special after all.

 

Jamie stayed hidden behind the empty shipping crates and tried not to breathe too heavy. He bit his tongue as he closed his fist around his lit cigarette to snub it out quickly. It stung something fierce, but he could hear John’s voice getting closer.

 

He also heard a kid crying.

 

Slowly, oh so slowly, Jamie peered around the edge of the boxes. He saw a kid in shackles, sobbing in a pile on the dirty floor. He couldn’t have been more than ten years old. A mop of dirty blonde hair obscured the kid’s face, but Jamie didn’t need to see it. He could hear the pain in the wretched gags and hiccups threatening to rip the kid apart at the seams.

 

He heard the sound of a safety lock on a gun. It was John. More important, it was his Mama’s gun. And it was pointed at this kid.

 

Jesse’s heart chilled.

 

He couldn’t hear what was being said, but John said something and the kid scrambled to answer. John laughed in that awful way he did when he knew he had control. He nudged the kid with his boot until the kid was sprawled over on his side. Broken sobs tore from the tiny body that sounded a lot like begging. Jesse’s hand clenched around his unlit cigarette. He needed to--

 

One of the men lurched forward and Jamie clutched the boxes in front of him hard enough to splinter.

 

The man undid the shackles and the boy scrambled to his feet. Jamie could hear him thanking John as John slid his Mama’s gun back into the holster at his hip.

 

If the Avaris just so happened to cross Jamie’s desk that week? Well. That was just a coincidence.


	5. Hanzo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG. Writing Hanzo is very very difficult to get into the groove of. (This chapter is primarily in Hanzo's POV too, so. Tricksy tricksy.) Especially after getting so comfy in McCree's headspace. 
> 
> Grad school is also kicking my ass something fierce, plus I just launched a start up company. So everything is hectic as hell. But I promise I haven't forgotten this piece, and I definitely have pmuch the entire story planned out down to the chapter so. Updates this late shouldn't be a common thing. 
> 
> As penance this one is extra long. With a bit of a twist at the end. ;P 
> 
> Shout out to ninjapandabear16 on tumblr for helping me brainstorm this stuff!! (sorry i posted it before you woke up I got excited lolol)

* * *

 

 

> **AGENT: Hanzo Shimada  
>  ****LOG DATE:** _August 14th, 2076. 3:02am.  
>  _**LOCATION:** _Watchpoint, Gibraltar; Roof of the Supply Building.  
>  _**SUBJECT:** _Misc.: Low Priority_

 

Gibraltar’s humidity had not been exaggerated. Even when the temperature dropped a good ten degrees without the sun, the mugginess in the air blanketed to the exposed skin of Hanzo’s neck like a layer of gossamer refusing let all of the dull heat escape. But that was not the source of his discomfort.

 

No, what was causing him discomfort was the man that had been trying to sneak around the roofs as if he wasn’t wearing a red and gold blanket. He was _clearly_ at ease on the base, judging from the confidence in his movements. More interesting, the cyborg that had claimed to be Genji was trailing him. He had been hovering around him like he wasn’t sure what to expect. When Hanzo had first lost track of the cyborg, he assumed that continuing to track the giant man in red would eventually lead him back to his target.

 

No, target wasn’t the right word. _Perogative_.

 

Thus far, his assumption had served him well. So he continued to trail behind the cyborg that trailed behind the cowboy like they were in the world’s worst game of tag. As unusual as that was, that wasn’t the source of his discomfort either.

 

Hanzo’s current discomfort came in the form of the man’s attention. Hanzo had been watching him sleep on a rooftop out of the corner of his eye, more looking out for the green light of the cyborg. He had made the mistake of looking away briefly and some time during his lapse in attention, the man had woken up and was now staring at Hanzo.

 

He couldn’t see much of the man’s features, but the intensity behind them was plain. Something about his easygoing smile screamed _unfriendly, danger._

 

Understandable, given that Hanzo was, in fact, trespassing on an allegedly shut down base that belonged to the very illegal Overwatch. Technically.

 

And Hanzo, in a flash of panic, drew his weapon.

 

The man froze. He said something but the waves covered it up swiftly. He was trying to shuffle closer, slowly like Hanzo was  going to flee at any moment. The movements were smooth but the metallic clinks of--were those _spurs?_ \--gave his movement away.

 

 _This_ was the source of Hanzo’s discomfort.

 

 _I do not have time for this,_ he thought just before letting the arrow loose.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

> **AGENT: Hanzo Shimada  
>  ****LOG DATE:** _August 14th, 2076. 9:28am.  
>  _**LOCATION:** _Watchpoint, Gibraltar;.  
>  _**SUBJECT:** _Misc.: Low Priority_

 

It did not get under Hanzo’s skin that the cowboy had managed to pursue him for much longer than almost anyone he had dealt with in over ten years. There was nothing at all that stuck in his mind like a spiked burr that told him maybe he was getting sloppy because he absolutely had not been sloppy. The cowboy had just gotten lucky. And the appearance of the cyborg to distract the man from his hunt was not at all the only thing that saved Hanzo from another direct confrontation from where he hid behind an air conditioning unit. He could handle himself. The cowboy had just gotten lucky.

 

Like he had gotten lucky when he spotted Hanzo tucked into the window of an old building while he had been eavesdropping.

 

It had been hours since the cyborg and the cowboy had left the beach, but still Hanzo kept his position. Even though the cowboy presumably knew where he was.

 

Hanzo was _fine_.

 

There was something unsettling about watching the cyborg speak while he believed he was unobserved. More unsettling to hear the cowboy use his dead brother’s name to refer to the cyborg. Most unsettling to watch the cyborg remove his faceplate. That had knocked the wind out of his lungs faster than a physical blow ever had. That face was his brother’s. That voice was his brother’s. The speaking pattern, the expressions… Unmistakable.

 

Which made things impossibly more complex. If this really was his brother, his survival had to be more than just luck. Something else was involved if Genji truly had been recovered after-- Hanzo pushed memories from his mind. If it was not his brother, why had someone gone to such great lengths to create this cyborg? What _possible_ purpose could this have had?

 

In either scenario, why had the cyborg appeared in Hanzo’s life only now? It had been ten years. Ten years to the _day_.

 

After what had… _happened_ in Hanamura he was not sure what to expect. A significant part of him wanted it to be a fever dream. Maybe from laced incense, or the hallucination product of too many nights without food and water. The prick of fear unique to facing death was not something that could be replicated, though. It was too fast. Too overwhelmingly detailed. Still, Hanzo had hoped. _Still._

 

There had not been enough time to memorize the cyborg’s words, movement, his fighting, the sharp whistle that accompanied only the best made blades--the way the metal had gleamed green light like the hair _he_ used to--the hair thin edge of the blade on his throat--was unnatural, whirring--roaring unfiltered power so achingly familiar and an _impossible dragon--_

 

Hanzo closed his eyes. _Deep breath. Focus._

 

The thick air around him carried the salt from the waves just as deftly as it muffled the sounds of the water itself. He could drown in it. He lifted up and dropped his back against the old drywall hard enough to feel the cool of the wall through cheap black fabric. He let his head loll back and forced himself to release the vice-like tension in his shoulders.

 

Salty air, pain, hunger, cheap fabric, and a headache that was slowly growing in fortitude. What happened in Hanamura was going to remain hazy. But tonight? Real. Definitely real. _I am here._

 

_“You still have a purpose in this life, brother.”_

 

It took more effort than he would ever admit to force his eyes open again. He did not want to be here. He had been on the base for all of twelve hours and had already been in an altercation. With a _cowboy_. And nearly _lost_ . Even if the cyborg-- _Genji_ \--wasn’t lying to him-- _not dead, alive, alive, alive, possible, possible_ \--what could he hope could come from this? There were some things you could not take back. There were some things one could not forgive.

 

Dryly, Hanzo thought it would be fittingly humiliating to be killed by a man who unironically wore spurs before he could ever confront his maybe-not-dead brother. Karmic, really.

 

 _“The world is changing once again, Hanzo,”_ It had been the first time he had heard his name out loud in years. As though the green dragon was not surreal enough to shake him out of a ten year long meditation. _“And it is time to pick a side.”_

 

How annoyingly cryptic. The cyborg certainly portrayed his late brother’s flair for the dramatic with accuracy.

 

 _Do not lend credence to strangers that claim impossible things,_ he scolded himself. His stomach twisted in a way that might’ve been hunger. He knew better. _What you want does not shape the truth._

 

And yet, here he was. Two weeks without a full night’s sleep so that he could breath the salt in the air and suffer from the Gibraltar humidity while he watched impossible conversations happening before him.

 

Hanzo wanted so badly for it to be true. That maybe his little brother was still alive. Maybe he had lived a life free from the Shimada-gumi. Maybe his little sparrow was still flying. In the form of a cyborg. That glowed green. And hung out with _cowboys_. Totally plausible.

 

Apparently manipulating the great Shimada Hanzo had gotten easier with age.

 

 _I do not want to be here_ , his mind supplied for the hundredth time since leaving Hanamura. _I do not want to pick a side. I do not want a purpose._

 

The sounds of the ocean offered no consolation. The chill in the concrete refused to warm to his skin. And the sting of insomnia allowed for no reprieve.

 

_Real. Real and here. I am here. Why am I here?_

 

As they had been for ten years, his dragons remained silent. If he focused hard enough, he could faintly feel them slither beneath his skin. Or perhaps this was also the product of _wanting_.

 

Hanzo closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

 

“For an internationally wanted man, you ain’t terribly subtle.”

 

Hanzo’s muscle memory worked faster than his mind did and he leapt to his feet before registering the threat in front of him. He had his bow up and arrow drawn before he really saw the red blanket. The gold trim wasn’t loops as he had thought. It was hexagons. And the man himself was taller still when standing two meters away. Despite the body armour and quiet whirr of a mechanical arm more complicated than any Hanzo had ever seen, the way the man presented himself was almost casual. _Almost._

 

The hat still shadowed the man’s face, but Hanzo could actually make out the details this time. Dark brown hair was loosely ruffled in a way that matched the scruffiness of his beard. His expression was bland, as if the gun he pointed at Hanzo’s face was about as remarkable as a paper airplane. His eyebrows arched lazily over half lidded eyes just a few shades lighter than his hair, and he looked for all the world like he was waiting on Hanzo to answer a question about the weather.

 

It was the careful way he controlled his breathing, the careful way he made sure not to blink, the careful way the gun didn’t waver that gave him away. There was nothing _casual_ about this man.

 

Something about him seemed familiar. An itch at the very back of Hanzo’s brain screamed at him to recognize him from somewhere, but he couldn’t place it. Surely there weren’t many skilled gunmen that dressed as a cowboy. Surely there--

 

“We gunna stand here like this all night?” The man asked him again in the same low voice. Hanzo was trying to remember if he had heard the click of the safety on the man’s gun. One finger was hovering over the trigger. His metal hand kept the base steady. “Or are you gunna try to make another break for it?”

 

Hanzo huffed involuntarily. “Obviously I was not trying to escape, or I would not still be in the same place you observed me.”

 

The roughness in Hanzo’s voice did not escape the notice of either man. The cowboy seemed intrigued. Hanzo was sharply aware that it was the first time he’d spoken out loud in years. _Why am I still here?_

 

The man’s laugh was low and could easily pass for genuine. “Pretty confident for a guy at the other end of a gun, ain’tcha?”

 

_Why does this man seem so familiar?_

 

“Very confident for a man familiar with Shimadas,” Hanzo retorted. It was a cheap shot at fishing for information. “Or perhaps you _are_ as stupid as you look?”

 

Brown eyes narrowed, but still his grin didn’t falter. “With all due respect, I dunno if I would lump your brother in with that shit-show. That was the whole point of murdering him, wasn’t it?”

 

Hanzo pointedly did not let his face shift. He did not clench his jaw. He focused on scouring his memory for traces of the cowboy in front of him.

 

“What is it you want?” Hanzo did his best not to snarl. It worked, somewhat. “Since you have not yet shot me, there must be something.”

 

“Maybe I’m just mullin’ it over,” the man said easily. “Besides, seems rude to shoot a man without introducing yourself.”

 

Something clicked in Hanzo’s mind and the international bounty listing blinked to the forefront of his mind. This man was at the top, he remembered that. Something with a J, maybe? Jerry? James?

 

“I hardly think you need introduction, Jesse McCree.” The man’s eyes darkened in a way that confirmed Hanzo’s guess.

 

“Ain’t much for banter, are ya?” The gun lowered a little bit. Hanzo watched it closely. McCree continued, “Well then, Mr. Shimada, I won’t waste your time.”

 

Hanzo’s eyes narrowed. “Is that so?”

 

“Mmhm.” McCree lowered the gun completely, casually tucking it back in his holster. He didn’t seem at all bothered by the arrow still pointed at his heart. “See, I’ve made this promise to your brother. Said I wouldn’t kill his only living family what with you bein’ here at his request and all. And I would like for it to go on record that I do intend to keep that promise.”

 

The spurs on McCree’s boots jingled lightly as he stepped forward slowly. The arm drawing back the arrow tugged a little tighter as Hanzo mirrored him in a step back. He said nothing.

 

“That bein’ said,” McCree’s tone was conversational. “I don’t have any intention of lettin’ you leave this base.”

 

Hanzo let the arrow loose the moment the last word left McCree’s mouth.

 

McCree dodged left like he was expecting it and rushed forward. The gun was out in a split second. Hanzo moved back quickly and brought up his bow to hook under McCree’s wrists and held them up so that the gun stayed pointed at the ceiling. McCree didn’t seem terribly bothered and stayed too close for Hanzo to be able to aim a good kick without losing his balance. He felt the cold of the drywall against his back.

 

He swiftly shoved McCree’s weight off to the right with as much force as he could pour into his bow. Instead of putting up resistance, McCree let the gun get pushed out of his grip and twisted to plant his metal elbow in Hanzo’s stomach. Hanzo scrambled to keep a grip on his bow but the elbow swung again at his temple.

 

He remembered thinking how tired he was before he slipped from consciousness.

 

 

* * *

 

 

> **AGENT: Hanzo Shimada  
>  ****LOG DATE:** _August 14th, 2076. 6:50pm.  
>  _**LOCATION:** _Watchpoint, Gibraltar; Roof of the Supply Building.  
>  _**SUBJECT:** _Misc.: Low Priority_

 

A splitting headache confirms to Hanzo that he was not dead.

 

 _Unfortunate_.

 

He refrained from opening his eyes. Slowly, carefully, he moved his wrists gently away from each other; no cuffs. There were voices speaking in hushed tones not too far from him, but they were dulled by something. A wall, maybe. Too solid to just be bars. He cautiously let his eyes open and refrained from cringing at the blinding fluorescent lights that confirm that he has been moved out of the building by the sea.

 

He was leaned up against a clean white plaster wall, matching the white tiles covering the floor. There was extensive wiring hooked up to his chest, presumably measuring his vitals, but the wiring itself extended out past a strange looking barrier.

 

It looked like melting glass. The surface of it shivered and moved without any pattern, and obscured the details of the room around him. He shifted his torso experimentally and watched the wiring easily move through the living glass as if it was as permeable as water.

 

Directly in front of him, Hanzo saw two figures. One looked sort of akin to a street lamp through the barrier’s distortion. There was a mess of yellow blonde at the top of the figure, and a thin line of grey running down to the floor. He assumed this was the source of the more feminine voice he heard. Of course it didn’t hurt his assumption that the other figure was draped in a shade of red that was growing increasingly familiar.

 

The low rumble of McCree’s voice would have been unmistakable even if Hanzo didn’t have the feminine voice to contrast it with.

 

The blonde street lamp shape moved closer and eventually resembled a woman. He still couldn’t see too many details, but could see enough to make out a face. When she spoke, it sounded like she was trying to communicate with him while he was underwater. The first time she tried, he frowned and sat forward. He gestured to his right ear to show he couldn’t hear. _Maybe she’d drop the barrier._

 

No luck. She moved closer and plucked something off the floor. Hanzo noticed a small speaker peeking up from one of the tiles on his side of the barrier.

 

“How are you feeling?” Her voice came through clearly.

 

Hanzo stayed silent. He wasn’t _trying_ to be difficult so much as he did not really have an answer for her. Well, he wasn’t particularly inclined to cooperate with anyone Jesse McCree associated with, but that was not the point.

 

She waited patiently for a full five minutes, watching him carefully.

 

He stared back at her blandly.

 

“Can you tell me who you are?” She tried.

 

 _Curious._ Hanzo shifted to look at the red mass that still stood too far away to resemble McCree properly. Had he not told her?

 

“My name is Doctor Angela Ziegler, resident physician of Overwatch,” her voice was calm, friendly. She watched him like he was a stray cat liable to bite. “Agent McCree found you out by the old supply storage buildings. Can you tell me your name?”

 

 _Found?_ Hanzo snorted. “I suppose he did.”

 

Doctor Ziegler shot a glare over her shoulder at McCree that Hanzo found immensely satisfying.

 

“Do you remember why you were here?” She tried again.

 

Hanzo opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. He frowned. What was an appropriate response? It was clear McCree knew who he was and what he had done but did that mean everyone at Overwatch knew?

 

_Why am I here?_

 

He pressed his lips closed and stared at the speaker on the floor to avoid the doctor’s concerned eyes.

 

“He is here at my invitation,” Genji’s voice came through faintly through the speaker. Even through the distortion of the glass, Hanzo recognized the green glow peeking out from metal joints. The doctor dropped the hand-held device she had been speaking into harshly on the floor and the last thing Hanzo heard was the loud feedback of a microphone being abruptly shut off before the room was filled again with underwater voices.

 

He couldn’t hear the specifics, but he recognized Genji’s voice yelling something harshly at McCree. The red blur looked unbothered. McCree’s drawl somehow preserved itself even without the words themselves being discernable. The cyborg stepped into the space of the red blur, a long green dotted line (an arm?) aggressively gesturing about something.

 

 _Defending me,_ Hanzo thought.

 

He tried to not feel a little smug and failed. He tried not to feel embarrassed and failed. He tried to remember the last time Genji had defended him. They had been twelve. Hanzo tried to ignore the wave of guilt sweeping over him and robbing him of the small victory.

 

The cyborg moved closer to the barrier and Hanzo’s heart caught in his throat. Even with the little warning, he still felt his guts drop through the floor when the barrier blinked away leaving him with a crystal clear view of Genji without his face-plate. A crystal clear view of the scars. Scars he had made when--

 

“Brother! Are you harmed?” Genji’s face and voice were full of concern. Hanzo clenched his teeth and pressed his back against the wall harder.

 

Bright fluorescent lights, the stinging pain in his head spreading from his temple, the cold of the tiles, McCree standing behind his brother and the doctor staring him down. Real. Real and here--

 

“Hanzo?” Genji’s voice was more cautious. “Are you concussed?”

 

Hanzo did not miss the snort McCree tried to stifle.

 

He scowled. “No.”

 

Genji looked relieved.

 

He should not have been relieved.

 

Hanzo pushed himself back to his feet, ignoring the hand Genji had offered. He brushed off the front of his clothing, already irritated at the absence of Stormbow at his back.

 

“...Genji, did you call him Hanzo?” The woman’s voice again. Hanzo resolutely focused on fixing his hair and tugging the electrode dots off his skin. “As in--”

 

Genji stepped closer into his space and Hanzo concentrated on not shoving him back out of habit.

 

“You really did get a ton of piercings. Holy shit.” Genji was apparently uninterested in answering the doctor’s very valid question in lieu of ogling at Hanzo’s face. He swapped into their native language and babbled incessantly in a way that was painfully familiar. “ _[And the hair! Oh my god. When did you do this? Did you do it yourself? You didn’t do the piercings yourself, right? You really ought to let a professional do the piercings just in case--]_ ”

 

His brother ( _alive_ ) reached out a metal hand to touch the side of Hanzo’s head which Hanzo ducked easily. Immediately, McCree and Doctor Ziegler had weapons pointed at him. Genji whirled around and spread out his arms, covering Hanzo from their aim.

 

Hanzo clenched his jaw.

 

_He should not be shielding me._

 

_He should not have his back to me._

 

“I have just gotten my brother back,” Genji scolded sharply. Hanzo’s eyes found the floor. “I will not have my friends attack him. He is here at my invitation.”

 

Both McCree and the doctor looked like they had opinions on this matter but Hanzo cut them off. “I should not be here.”

 

Genji turned back around to look at him. He was close enough that Hanzo could see the start of crows feet wrinkling the corners of his eyes. Could see the crease in his brow from concentration. Could see the way the light left his eyes as a look of utter heartbreak spread across his brother’s face in a way he thought he would never see again. In the same way he would never forget. Hanzo looked back at the floor.

 

“You will not stay with Overwatch?” Genji asked quietly.

 

“ _[I should not be here.]_ ” Hanzo repeated. “ _[You should not have invited me.]_ ”

 

Behind Genji, the doctor ushered a protesting McCree out of the room, grumbling at him in a language that might’ve been German. Or Swiss. Hanzo wasn’t great at identifying European languages.

 

In front of him, Genji shrugged. “ _[Perhaps. But I did.]_ ”

 

Hanzo’s jaw hurt from grinding his teeth. “ _[Why?]_ ”

 

Genji sighed. He stretched his arms over his head in a slow arc. Hanzo realized then that Genji must not have gotten much sleep before McCree had dragged him into the cell. The ever-present guilt bubbled harshly in his stomach.

 

“ _[That is a long conversation, brother,]_ ” Genji looked tired. “ _[One I would rather save until after a full night’s sleep.]_ ”

 

Hanzo stayed silent. He pretended to be fascinated by the huge text on the eyesight testing chart on the far wall.

 

Genji’s hand made gentle contact with his shoulder and Hanzo told himself he didn’t flinch.

 

“ _[Stay here tonight. In a real room, not a cell. Although I must say. I never thought I would be the one to bail you out.]_ ” Genji’s voice was teasing. Hanzo wanted to smile. Really, he did. It felt too familiar. But he did not. And Genji persevered on anyways. “ _[Come. I will show you to the dorms.]_ ”

 

“ _[My bow,]_ ” Hanzo insisted sharply. “ _[I need my bow.]_ ”

 

He didn’t have to see Genji’s face to feel the wind being sucked out of his sails. Like he already knew that Hanzo had made up his mind. Hanzo had always been predictable.

 

“ _[Of course,]_ ” Genji smiled weakly.

 

Hanzo tried to return the gesture.

 

 

* * *

 

 

> **AGENT: Hanzo Shimada  
>  ****LOG DATE:** _August 14th, 2076. 10:02pm.  
>  _**LOCATION:** _Watchpoint, Gibraltar; Blackwatch Dorms.  
>  _**SUBJECT:** _Misc.: Low Priority_

 

Ordinarily Hanzo would have protested being put to bed like a toddler. He was a world class assassin that had single handedly taken down at least four (though at this point, he’s fairly certain six) yakuza clans. He had been living on his own without permanent residence for the past ten years, avoiding both the bounty hunters tracking him while simultaneously hunting bounties of his own.

 

He also had his first verbal conversation in about six (seven?) years last night right before having his ass kicked by a cowboy. Apparently he needed the rest. This was confirmed when he woke up god knows how many hours later staring at the popcorn ceiling above his cot.

 

 _No, not mine. Overwatch_ , He reminded himself sharply. He rolled over to face the door and nearly crushed a small neat box that had been set beside him. Carefully, he undid the string holding it together and let the flaps fall open. It contained leftovers of a rich smelling pasta dish peppered with strips of spiced beef and peas. His heart tugged painfully in his chest. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten something other than military rations.

 

_Why am I still here?_

 

Scrawled on the inside of the top flap was a short note in Japanese:

 

“See you when you wake up!”

 

 _Genji._ Hanzo’s appetite was ripped off him like an old band-aid.

 

 _Why am I still here?_ he thought again, more insistently this time. The noodles didn’t offer any explanation. The note didn’t magically gain any more words. Hanzo sighed. He would need to eat if he was going to be travelling so soon whether or not he felt like it.

 

Perhaps, when he was far enough away, the unsettling feeling he got from his brother’s handwriting would fade and he could enjoy the meal retroactively.

 

It didn’t take long for the already setting sun to completely vanish over the horizon line. Hanzo must have slept for most of the day (days?). It was a waste of time, but he admittedly felt more like himself. This time, he would not fall prey to mistakes born of exhaustion.

 

The cowboy’s grin came unbidden into his mind and he scowled.

 

McCree had gotten lucky. It would not happen again.

 

Hanzo slung Stormbow over his shoulders and used his pocket knife to loosen up the screws of the window in his room. He carefully lifted the framed glass away from the wall and placed it gently on the cot next to the now empty box. The note stared at him balefully as he moved through the window. Briefly, he considered leaving a note. But he didn’t have anything to say, so he slipped outside quietly.

 

They had placed him in a room on the first floor which meant that while he didn’t have to immediately begin scaling the wall to get down, he was also most likely to be caught if he remained at this level. So he grit his teeth and dug his fingers into the tiny crevices in the wall until his feet found the top of the building’s roof.

 

The base location was blessedly remote--Hanzo could see the mess of trees and brush that he’d ventured through just a little while earlier not far off from where he stood now. One night’s walk would get him decently far away from the base itself and certainly about halfway to one of the little nearby towns where he could quietly teleport somewhere.

 

Just the thought of being on a different continent soothed Hanzo considerably as he moved. He was careful not to leave tracks once he started his trek over the rocky hills and cliffsides, and took extra caution to pause occasionally in case he was being followed. Nothing. No cowboy. No green cyborg.

 

With the base getting closer and closer to the horizon behind him, Hanzo thought surely that he had made a successful getaway. He had taken precautions that he hadn’t bothered with in years.

 

Which justified the undignified squawk he let out upon seeing that goddamn cowboy hat through the trees ahead.

 

“ _How?_ ” Hanzo snapped. “Have you _nothing else_ to do with your time than pester me?”

 

The cowboy hat paused in its movements before shuffling towards him slowly. McCree’s face followed. This time there was no grin.

 

“You got any fuckin’ idea what you’re doing?” The other man’s voice was sharp against the otherwise still scene. Hanzo’s scowl deepened. “You have any fuckin’ clue how long Genji was torn up about the shit you pulled?”

 

Hanzo said nothing. He flexed his fingers at his side, ready to reach for Stormbow.

 

“Well I do,” McCree jabbed a finger at Hanzo’s chest. “I watched that kid grow up with a goddamn broken heart. It took him the better part of a fuckin decade to relearn how to be happy, n’frankly all this forgiveness shit is still pretty new for him.”

 

 _Perhaps he should not have forgiven me at all_. Hanzo stared at McCree coolly. The cowboy didn’t seem to need this conversation to be two sided.

 

“And now you’ve gone and got his goddamn hopes up that maybe, just maybe, there’s one piece of his childhood left. That maybe there’s someone else out there who understands the seven goddamn levels of hell he went through growing up with the Shimada clan.” The way McCree spit his family name seemed fitting. “But you can’t even stay long enough to give it a fuckin’ chance?”  

 

The man threw his head back in a hollow laugh. “I promised him I wouldn’t shoot you, so thank your lucky stars for that. But just know that this shit? Right here?” McCree gestured to Hanzo’s entire person and the woods around them. “This’ll break him all over again. And my promise ain’t gunna extend to cover that betrayal on top of the original. Got it?”

 

The words hit Hanzo like a train.

 

“I said, _got it?_ ”

 

Hanzo nodded stiffly, not trusting himself to speak, and returned the way he came. He felt the cowboy’s eyes on his back the whole time.

 

 

* * *

 

 

> **AGENT: Jesse J. McCree  
>  ****LOG DATE:** _August 14th, 2076. 11:33pm.  
>  _**LOCATION:** _Watchpoint, Gibraltar; Northern Grounds.  
>  _**SUBJECT:** _Misc.: Low Priority_

 

“Did you ditch him?” Reyes’ voice crackled to life in McCree’s ear. He could still see the trails yellow ribbon tying back the older Shimada’s hair, but it was barely a splotch of yellow against the grey walls of the base.

 

“Yeah. Yeah, I think so.” He kept his voice low and tried to calm his heartbeat. “He came out of fuckin’ nowhere.”

 

“You’re getting sloppy,” Reyes accused.

 

“Horseshit,” Jesse responded. “He got lucky, s’all. Think he bought that I was tailin’ him.”

 

“You’re a bit shit at emotional speeches, y’know that?” Reyes sounded bored.

 

“Oh yeah?” Jesse couldn’t help the grin from spreading. “You hiring me to make you weepy any time soon? I can brush up on my Nicholas Sparks. Ain’t that the author of that one film you cried at? What was it called… The Note--”

 

“Shut the fuck up, pendejo. You need to get a move on to the teleporter.”

 

“Sure, sure,” Jesse snickered, but he got moving.

 

As always, he left everything but his headset in a safe at the inn adjacent to the teleport hub under the name Jamie Martinez. The innkeeper made pleasant small talk, asked him how the wife was, how the kids were, whether or not he’d be wanting that pint he’d won from a poker game yet or nah. Jesse smiled and charmed his way through it all, listening to the mission intel being rattled off in his right ear the whole time. Reyes never really had any sense of patience.

 

This mission had been particularly brutal, not counting the standard motion sickness Jesse could always count on from cheaply made teleports. Two young adults--a couple--and their two kids. They had found a safe house in south Egypt totally off the radar. No internet, no wireless, no nothin’ that would put them on the map. Still, Talon had found them. Jesse’s lips pursed into a thin line as he cleaned some of the blood splatter off his boots. The bodies had already been bagged up neatly.

 

“It’s part of the job, mijo.” Reyes said after a long silence.

 

“Don’t call me that.” Jesse said. “I ain’t your son.”

 

Neither of them commented on the crack in his voice.

  
  



	6. John Dies at the End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How about another chapter and a promise that I won't leave you hanging so long next time? Would you believe me? No? That's probably fair. 
> 
> But still, here it is. 
> 
> This one's a bit patch-work-y with Hanzo POV and past sections about Jesse's time with Deadlock. Unlike prior chapters, this one moves at break-neck speed. Well. Break-neck speed for me, anyways. 
> 
> Another shout out to ninjapandabear16 for sorting through my ramblings and helping me piece this huge story together in a way that's coherent and enjoyable!

 

 

 

> **AGENT: Hanzo Shimada  
> ** **LOG DATE:** _August 15th, 2076. 12:02am.  
>  _**LOCATION:** _Watchpoint, Gibraltar; Outside the Blackwatch Dorms.  
>  _**SUBJECT:** _Misc.: Low Priority_
> 
>  

Hanzo had his foot through his window and his hands braced around the window frame when he realized that McCree had been in front of him--not behind.

 

This mattered for three reasons.

 

First, it meant that McCree had managed to get himself deeper into the woods than Hanzo had without any indication that Hanzo would in fact head in that direction at all. Which meant he had either only _just_ bypassed Hanzo (an event Hanzo would have surely noticed) when he was spotted, or that he had been leaving the Gibraltar base of his own accord.

 

Second, McCree could not have been successfully tracking him regardless because one had to actually wait for tracks in order to do so. There was no such thing as getting ahead of the person being tracked without… well. Completing your goal of tracking them.

 

Reasons one and two made it extremely unlikely that McCree had been tracking Hanzo at all. More likely still that Hanzo had just happened to cross his path. In the woods. Alone.

 

Which was odd to say the least, but. Most importantly?

 

The third reason being that McCree had been lying through his teeth when he lectured Hanzo about hurting Genji. It meant that the words still twisting around in Hanzo’s veins had not been prepared or meditated on. The sentiment behind the words could have been genuine, but McCree had not left the base with the intention of preventing Hanzo from hurting his brother. At least it was unlikely.

 

And for whatever reason, McCree had wanted Hanzo to go back to the base.

 

All of this came to him as he stared at the box on his bed, still open with the note from Genji visible. McCree could not have known when Hanzo would wake. Nor that he would try to disappear immediately upon waking. But most notably? Nothing in the room had been altered in such a way that suggested anyone had discovered his absence at all.

 

Still halfway in and halfway out of his own window, Hanzo felt pure unbridled delight that the damned cowboy had not outwitted him after all.

 

The feeling was only temporary though as he realized that if McCree had been sneaking off the base of his own accord, then it was likely that he was not doing such with Overwatch sanctions. Hanzo had heard rumours that the destruction of Overwatch had been an inside job but surely such threats could not be a concern to the newly reformed group. They had not even gone public yet.

 

He frowned.

 

He tugged his weight inside of his room and made quick work of re-attaching the window pane. Even if he could not amend his relationship with his brother personally, he could at least prevent him from being killed through an organization doomed from the start.

 

Trust Genji to put himself at the wrong end of an assassin’s weapon _twice_.

 

 

* * *

 

 

> **AGENT: Jesse J. McCree  
> ** **LOG DATE:** _March 4th, 2055. 3:02am.  
>  _**LOCATION:** _About 15min south of Las Cruces, New Mexico.  
>  _**SUBJECT:** _Misc.: Low Priority_

 

Jamie Martinez and Jesse McCree stood one-and-the-same, dressed in the most formal blacks he owned (a spiked leather jacket, a ratty tank top, and skinny jeans torn to shreds--he didn’t own much formal wear) and tried to talk himself out of just making a break for it right then and there. Jamie’s voice that he’d practiced and perfected as a diehard loyal Deadlock was stubbornly insisting he remember that all the people present at this funeral were armed to the teeth and the wide open desert didn’t offer much in the way of cover. It wouldn’t do him any good to run.

 

 _Except that death would be quick_ , he thought. _Probably._

 

Even that wasn’t really a guarantee with Deadlock. He could end up getting shot by Ben or Tracy and end up bleeding to death out of his foot if they aimed for his head.

 

Jesse’s own hard-ignored instincts were telling him to fuck any kind of reasoning and fucking bolt.

 

Either way both Jesse McCree and Jamie Martinez were going to die tonight. He was sure of it. The mangled body in front of him made that crystal-fucking-clear.

 

Deadlock’s leader (“ _My name’s John, but you can call me ‘sir’, got it?_ ”) was giving some impassioned speech about true loyalty, service, and the ferocity of ol’ dearly departed Mattie Tyson’s soul. Something something cleverest bastard on the field. Something something best right hand man in the west. Something something.

 

 _Apparently not that clever,_ Jesse thought wryly. _Couldn’t spot a tampered weapon if it literally backfired through his goddamn clever bastard skull._

 

And yet John had insisted on an open coffin. Presumably to let Jamie Martinez know exactly how dead he was. Because the tampered with weapon had been assigned to none other than John himself by Deadlock’s trusty mechanic: Jamie Martinez.

 

Yeah. Jesse McCree was fifteen years old and he was going to die tonight.

 

“...we didn’t catch the guy that did it.” John’s voice was almost believably morose. This is it.

 

“But there were ten or twenty punks there we weren’t expectin’ to begin with. Local brats. Wanting to make a big show of how brave they were for their shithole town.” John paused to spit on the ground. “Ain’t gunna be a town left after we get to’em. Eh, boys?”

 

A low murmur of agreement spread through the Deadlock members crowded around.

 

Jesse watched his boss warily, careful to nod at all the appropriate moments.

 

“Mattie here served good time with the family, y’all know that.” John’s voice quieted. “What, ten, fifteen years? Kid was a real fuckin’ brat when we picked him up, too.”

 

A couple voices shared bittersweet memories in the crowd behind Jesse. He was painfully aware that he was directly in the line of fire where he stood. He was painfully aware that there was no way he could reach and draw his gun in time. And he was painfully aware that John was stalling.

 

“Shit, I’d never seen anyone that small try to fight Marcos.” John’s chuckle was matched by a couple other folks. “He couldn’ta been more than fourteen y’all, and I still remember watchin’ him throw himself at us like he had a goddamn chance.”

 

More chuckles, louder this time. The contrast with the mush-for-skill body in front of them was sharp. Jesse controlled his breathing.

 

“Ain’t like we didn’t grab more spitfires over the years, though,” John’s eyes landed on him. Jesse stared at the body and pretended not to notice. His blood chilled and he wondered if his face would be as unrecognizable as Matt’s. “Some of us here remember the day we brought on board some scrawny thirteen year old runt that--and I kid you not, y’all--spat in my face.”

 

_This is it. This is it--_

 

Beside him, Jesse felt Marco nudge the same shoulder with the same hand he’d held Jesse still with all those years back. All two years back. God. Has it only been two years?

 

If he was going to die, he at least wanted another cigarette. He shoved his hand in his pocked and pulled one out, put it between his lips and drew in a deep breath.

 

“And this little fucker couldn’ta weighed more than ten pounds soakin’ wet.” John was beaming at him now and Jesse could hear Marco’s chuckles distinct from the Deadlock crew behind him. “Had more balls on him than sense, y’all.”

 

“Still does!” Marco snickered beside him. Jesse glowered.

 

“Yeah, I reckon so!” John agreed.

 

The older man walked around the edge of Matt’s grave and waved his hand indicating to the two men holding shovels to begin burying the dead man as he passed. Jesse’s fingers twitched. He wanted to die with a gun in his hand. He wanted to take John down with him. He hadn’t waited two goddamn years to--

 

“S’why I s’pect he’ll make a good replacement.”

 

John was standing directly in front of Jesse (Jamie) and held his right hand out. Jessie (Jamie) stared at it, blinking once, twice.

 

“What’dya say, Martinez? Ready to be my right hand man? Sure could use a shot like you in the field.”

 

Jesse stared at the hand. He followed the arm up to John’s face. Aside from a few new scars here and there, he looked exactly the same. Ruthless. Calculating. This was not an offer he could refuse.

 

Next to him, Marco was hollering, “Aw, man! Trust fuckin’ wonder boy here to get a promotion to second in command before I even get a raise.”

 

“You show me you got more than two braincells to rub together and I’ll consider it,” John retorted swiftly. Marco turned a dark red. “Jamie’s earned his keep and then some. He’s young but…”

 

John trailed off to look Jesse over approvingly. “He can handle it. ...Oh! Which reminds me!”

 

The man shuffled around and patted down his pockets dramatically until he found what he was fishing for. Jesse saw the spur on the end of the gun’s handle and only barely reacted in time to dodge the bullet aimed at his chest. Jesse sidestepped the outstretched arm and snatched John by the wrist. He yanked hard at the same time he swung a leg out, and pulled the gun from his grasp. By the time the older man had hit the sand, Jesse had the gun cocked and pointed.

 

His mama’s gun.

 

_“Oh, yeah?” She taunted. The cigarette hung from her lips like she really was one of those action stars. Soon as she saw that he was looking her way again, she yanked him in closer and ruffled his hair up good. “Mister smart guy over here knows his guns now! What’s this gun called then, huh?”_

 

_“It’s a peace-keeper,” he retorted. She laughed again, snorting._

 

His gun _._

 

The crowd of Deadlock folks had gone uncomfortably quiet as Jesse aimed at John’s head, but John seemed unconcerned. He howled with laughter and gestured emphatically, saying, “See? See? I told you the kid could handle himself!”

 

It would be so easy to just pull the trigger. He’d die at the hands of the Deadlock crowd now in front of him and behind John. He looked at them momentarily and saw Marco smiling at him. He saw Monica, who brought him lunches when he got caught up in fixing something. Dennis, the old man that kept selling him cigarettes for too damn much. He looked down at John who was smiling easily at him, assured that Jamie Martinez would never shoot his boss.

 

Jesse clenched his teeth and clicked the safety of the gun back on. He slid it into his back pocket where the weight comforted him. Not today. Not yet.

 

Jamie Martinez grinned slow and easy when he reached out a hand to help John to his feet. “I’ll do it, but I ain’t gunna call you _sir_ anymore.”

 

Mild irritation flashed in John’s eyes at the obvious power play, but he took the hand and laughed good naturedly anyways. “Seems fair enough to me, _brat_.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

> **AGENT: Hanzo Shimada  
> ** **LOG DATE:** _August 17th, 2076. 11:32pm.  
>  _**LOCATION:** _Watchpoint, Gibraltar; Northern Grounds.  
>  _**SUBJECT:** Misc.: Low Priority

 

Hanzo had taken the piercing out from the bridge of his nose and let his hair loose before entering the small town he had been aiming for the night prior. The teleport station was so obviously the center of the entire place’s economy--every few meters there was another sign indicating which way to the Transportation Hub.

 

The neon arrows didn’t hurt progress either.

 

When he found the attendant, Hanzo stammered and struggled through their conversation, doing his best to pretend like he didn’t speak much English.

 

“Oh! The tall handsome looking guy with the cigar?”

 

Hanzo nodded, deciding not to nitpick the details.

 

“Yeah, that’s Mr. Martinez. You want me to give him a message when he gets back?”

 

Hanzo shook his head and waved his hands. “No, no, it is okay! I will find him.”

 

The attendant nodded patiently and stuffed a few hundred fliers about teleport fees, risks, and extremely exaggerated rewards. Hanzo smiled.

 

 

* * *

 

 

> **AGENT: Jesse J. McCree  
> ** **LOG DATE:** _March 20th, 2055. 1:02pm.  
>  _**LOCATION:** _5min south of El Paso.  
>  _**SUBJECT:** _Misc.: Low Priority_
> 
>  

Retaliation was brutal, but that was to be expected. Jesse had long since gotten used to polishing blood out of the nooks and crannies of laser guns meant to be fired from a distance, and prying pieces of flesh out from the spiked tires on the raider’s motorbikes. He thought he had grown accustomed to it before he took to the field with John.

 

It’s a whole ‘nother world to see the carnage in person.

 

The first town they ‘ashed’ was the one that had killed Matt. At least you would’a thought the entire town had done the man in, with how Deadlock treated it. Not a single goddamn person was left standing. Not even the kids. All because some punk-ass teens had decided to be heroes.

 

He remembered John throwing a lit match into a puddle of gasoline surrounding some shitty trailer at the edge of town. One of the teen’s homes, Jesse figured. But the nonchalance in how John threw it was more harrowing than the shrieks of people burning to death. The man wasn’t bothered a bit by the smell of human flesh burning. He didn’t even flinch at the pained howls, or consider the tearful begging. There was no hesitation. None at all.

 

They ‘ashed’ two or three more towns over the next two years. Marco had died on the last one. Each time Jesse braced himself. Each time he saw his Papa’s polished wooden panels lighting up faster than gasoline spills. He smelled the same burned flesh as his Papa sitting in the armchair like the wood scraps on top of a bonfire. He saw the puddle of blood around his mama’s limp legs on the fake kitchen tile.

 

There wasn’t any amount of preparation he could do that would help him walk away from ashing without leaving a chunk of his goddamn soul behind to burn with the town. And each time he got so close to putting a bullet in John’s head. But they were never alone. There was always enemy fire. There was never a way back without John.

 

Starvation, Jesse learned, made people do wretched things.

 

This time, the town they were meant to target wasn’t even their turf. Was part of some sister gang, Los Muertos, who they dealt with often enough to treat like their own. Didn’t mean shit wasn’t tense, though. No such thing as friendly relations between arms dealers. Still, John had insisted, ain’t gunna be as bad as burning your own turf. _Ain’t your own people._

 

Jesse wasn’t sure what to do with that knowledge.

 

But what he did know was that the little girl in front of him had no idea who he was. He wasn’t sure she would’ve known even if she had the misfortune to live on Deadlock turf. That being the case because she couldn’t have been more than seven or eight years old. She wailed and wailed, screaming and holding onto a ratty looking stuffed pink bear like it might somehow save her as she stared horrified at her parents (presumably) bleeding out on the carpet.

 

John poured gasoline on the couch.

 

Jesse heard him light a match.

 

In a split second, Jesse scooped up the little girl. He ignored the way her tiny fists banged on his shoulder, and the deafening screeching in his ear. He didn’t look back when he heard the whooshing sound of flames engulfing bad quality wood. He didn’t look back even as she wrenched her weight to reach out and grab at the home she no longer had.

 

Jesse couldn’t even remember who had been the one to shoot her parents.

 

“Ey, _vaquero_ .” One of the Los Muertos men waved him down. The green skull tatted into the skin of his face made him look tacky instead of ghoulish in the broad daylight. He gestured to the girl in Jesse’s arms. “ _[What do you have there?]_ ”

 

The girl was screaming ‘ _no, no, I don’t want to, no!_ ’ as loud as she could and Jesse could hear the cracks in her voice forming as smoke and exhaustion took its toll. He wondered if he had sounded similar.

 

“Good thinking, brat.” John’s hand on his shoulder made him flinch. “They’re gunna need fresh blood after this fuckin’ mess. Good eye for recruiting. Maybe I’ll set you on that when we get back home, eh?”

 

John easily pulled the screaming child from his grasp. Jesse felt sick. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t do this.

 

Peacekeeper hung heavy at his side, reminding him. He could make the shot without hitting the girl. He’d have to compensate for John’s movements, but he was still close enough, still in sight--

 

No. If he did, then what? Los Muertos slaughtered him and the girl both. That’s what.

 

Jesse controlled his breathing. Soon. _Soon._

 

 

* * *

 

 

> **AGENT: Hanzo Shimada  
> ** **LOG DATE:** _August 18th, 2076. 5:36am.  
>  _**LOCATION:** _Watchpoint, Gibraltar; Northern Grounds.  
>  _**SUBJECT:** _Misc.: Low Priority_

  


The sun rose pale on the horizon and made the thin tall trees cast harsh shadows. From where he was perched a good ten meters off the ground, Hanzo had to put a hand in front of his face to shield his eyes from the worst of it. He could feel his skin warm in the fresh daylight and begin to shake off the midnight chill. He was just about to give up his hunt and go back to the base when the cowboy hat came into view.

 

Jesse McCree looked tired. There was no other word for it. He mumbled something into a headset before taking it out of his ear and tucking it safely in his pocket. It looked like the standard issue Overwatch piece he had seen on the doctor and his brother but he was too far up to tell for sure.

 

For a moment, McCree hesitated and Hanzo was sure he had somehow been heard. Hanzo pressed himself into the trunk of the tree to flatten his shape and kept himself as still as possible.

 

_Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. I am real and I am here._

 

McCree’s momentary lapse passed in a huge over-exaggerated yawn. He started moving towards the base again, seemingly unconcerned. Hanzo noted that the cowboy avoided making tracks in a way that made it look like habit.

 

Newly reformed and already Overwatch had at least one traitor.

 

 

* * *

 

 

> **AGENT:** _Jesse J. McCree_  
>  **LOG DATE:** _January 28th, 2056. 11:37am._  
>  **LOCATION:** _About 15min south of Las Cruces, New Mexico.  
>  _**SUBJECT:**   _Evidence for_ People of New Mexico vs. Jamie Martinez; [Confidential; High Priority]
> 
>   
> 

The irony was honestly almost unbearable. Jesse could hardly keep a straight face through the whole ordeal. Sure, all his friends and colleagues were dropping like flies around him, but since when was that new? He wondered briefly when he’d finally lost it and laughed aloud again.

 

“Would you cut that shit out, Martinez?” John snapped at him. “Get out of your fuckin’ head. I need you at your best, y’hear me?”

 

Jesse ignored him. There were goddamn motherfucking tanks surrounding the building. Being on the top floor wasn’t gunna give them an advantage over full body armour and military grade weaponry. The high ground didn’t do shit against _goddamn motherfucking tanks_.

 

Which, if he thought about it the right way, was oddly flattering.

 

He felt the soldier’s boots storming through the ground floor more than he heard them, though that could’ve been his pulse pounding in his ears. Maybe both.

 

“What the fuck are you doing, Martinez? Get your fucking gun up!” John had backed himself into the far left corner and was gesturing for Jesse to hide behind one of the rusting file cabinets. The man’s eyes were wide and wild the way people’s eyes got when they saw the grim reaper headed their way. “We ain’t fuckin’ dying today, got it? Point your goddamn gun, brat!”

 

The stomping was closer now. He could hear commands being shouted.

 

Jesse stared at John blandly and raised his gun. For a moment John looked relieved, but it was a brief moment. He stared down the barrel of Jesse’s gun, his mama’s gun, with red faced fury.

 

“That ain’t my name.” Jesse said.

 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” John snarled.

 

“Weapons down, now! Hands in the air!” _The_ Gabriel Reyes was standing in the doorway like he’d walked out of Jesse’s TV set. And here Jesse was all distracted. How rude.

 

Jesse shot John right between the eyes.

 

The stomping seemed to still. Jesse tucked his mama’s gun, his gun, neatly into its holster, not at all bothered by the various red dots searching for his vitals. He fished around in his pocket for a cigarette before he mustered the courage to look over at _The_ Gabriel Motherfucking Reyes (was that Jack Morrison behind him? _Hah!_ ) properly. He couldn’t stop a shallow laugh from bubbling up through his throat.

 

“My mama would’a loved to meet you, sir.” Jesse said, smiling. “Prob’ly not like this though, huh?”

 

His voice shook, but he supposed that was normal for a man about to die. He managed to take a deep pull off of his cigarette before the taser hit him square in the chest. Jesse found a bizarre satisfaction knowing that it had taken Gabriel “Hero of the Omnic Crisis” Reyes to finally take him down.

 

 _Never meet your heroes, eh?_ he thought, as blackness swallowed up his vision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man I've been planning that shit since day one and WHOO BOY it is maybe as cathartic to get it published as it was for Jesse to shoot that bastard in the face. Maybe. Almost. 
> 
> Y'know what this means?? This means I get to do my rendition of Gabe Accidentally Adopts Jesse In An Interrogation Room. 
> 
> I am so fucking excited. 
> 
> Come talk to me about headcanons and theories and everything on tumblr! 
> 
> ("getmcfucked" is my username lul)


	7. Necessary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY SO I DID A THING HERE. I put in actual Japanese instead of using the [speaking] format. If you hover your mouse over the sentences, a hover text should appear with the english translation. If for some reason that does not work, I have put the translations in the notes at the bottom of the chapter. I will likely back-track and do this to previous chapters too. It's much smoother formatting. 
> 
> Also, you guys? This is only HALF of the stuff I had planned for this chapter. But I hit 5k words and thought... welp. should probably wind it down a bit. Plus, I crave validation and all that etc etc. 
> 
> Come hang out with me on tumblr!! I'm @getmcfucked.
> 
> EDIT: So I changed the format again, at the prompting of a few readers who read on mobile (meaning the hover text is more or less useless lmao). The stuff the dragons say is still in Japanese with a hover text translation, but there's also a link next to it to an english translation so you don't have to scroll and spoil yourself. Let me know if that's better!

* * *

 

 

> **AGENT: Gabriel Reyes  
>  ****LOG DATE:** _January 29th, 2056. 8:37am.  
>  _**LOCATION:** _Watchpoint, Gibraltar.  
>  _**SUBJECT:** _Blackwatch Logs: Marked Confidential_

 

Commander Jack Morrison had that dopey eyed farm boy thing down to a _science._

 

It extended past the press conferences where he gave his most winning smiles, and warmly told concerned citizens that Overwatch would protect them with everything they had. It was not uncommon to hear of Morrison camping out with new young recruits with the sole intention of learning their life stories. ‘Every soldier deserves to be known properly,’ or some bullshit like that.

 

There was a rumour among the older Blackwatch agents that Commander Morrison had been giving instructions on invasion when a sniper shot him in the thigh. According to the rumour, the rapidly bleeding Morrison had casually sidestepped until he was appropriately behind cover and cheerily told everyone that the world was counting on them.

 

Supposedly some of the interns watched Morrison actually rescue a kitten from a tree.

 

And these were a few of many, _many_ rumours.

 

It was utter bullshit, in Gabe’s oh-so-humble opinion. But the sheer magnitude of effort it must have taken him to perfect it was worth begrudging respect.

 

What Gabe doubted was not the events--nah, these soldiers and agents weren’t idiots. (Well, not idiot enough to make up shit about the leader of Overwatch.) It was the way things were attributed to Jack like he was some beacon of all that is good and pure. No, Gabe was sure--what could be attributed to undiluted sunshine personality was almost always a small peek of the real Jack Morrison if you squinted at it sideways.

 

Those press conferences were strategic. He knew the world needed the face of their heroes to be as nauseatingly golden as humanly possible if they were to believe jack shit about the rest of Overwatch. He knew he needed to be the epitome of trustworthiness.

 

Camping with soldiers to get to know them? Unlikely. Morrison was filtering through the new guys systematically to check for signs of enemy infiltration. It wasn’t a coincidence that every once in awhile, soldiers would drop out of the program immediately after the camping trips for mysterious reasons.

 

Not noticing getting shot in the leg wasn’t terribly surprising. Gabe had gone through the super soldier program with him and getting shot was hardly worth noticing compared to feeling your nervous system getting rapidly rewired. Nah, Gabe was willing to bet Jack was hoping that no one else noticed that he got shot. Standing in front of an open window is a rookie mistake. Or it could have been a show of power. A stupid one, but.

 

As for rescuing the kitten? Well, Gabe hadn’t figured out the motive behind that one but he was going to.

 

It wasn’t that Morrison wasn’t a nice guy. He was _decent._ But no one, _no one_ was that mind-bogglingly patient or kind or… Whatever that thing was where he looks at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters. That crap.

 

At first Gabe had been heartbroken when he found that he’d been passed over for command. He’d saved the world and still no one trusted him. He’d cradled his soldiers while they lay dying in his arms until  he watched the light leave their eyes and still they thought him ruthless. There was nothing he would ever be able to do to shake off whatever aura he had that kept people at a distance.

 

But it started to make sense the second he saw Jack Morrison--a foot soldier that had one of the highest kill counts he’d ever seen--all dressed up like a Ken doll. He looked the part. At first, he struggled to act it too, but it came just as quickly as everything else did to Morrison.

 

When Morrison asked to speak with him privately, Gabe was not expecting to be put in charge of the secret tactical side of Overwatch. But it made _sense._ He needed freedom from the eyes always judging him, always reading him, always misreading him. And there Morrison was--the perfect beautiful distraction.

 

“I need you to do this,” Morrison had said.

 

“Why me?” Gabe had asked. He had been looking through proposed mission files. All of them would require heavy casualties. All of them were the kinds of things no man should ever have to see. All of them were in Gabe’s hands.

 

“You care about the lives of your men,” Morrison had shrugged, not meeting his eyes. “It’s obvious. And as the leader of Blackwatch, it’s a trait that we cannot afford to forfeit.”

 

That was the day the sunshine mask started to crack.

 

Contrary to very-carefully-crafted popular belief, Gabe was more than fine with the facade. In fact, he encouraged it. People trusted Morrison in a way they just never did with Gabe. Sometimes it was racism, sometimes it was homophobia, sometimes it was mistaking Gabe’s efficiency for heartlessness. Didn’t matter. Where Morrison had the picture perfect appearance of a shepherd that happened to stumble into tight fitting military uniform, Gabe had a resting I-will-fight-you face. They both knew that. And they both knew that these masks that would keep them all safe when shit hit the fan.

 

However much of it was bluster was just coincidental to how much Morrison believed in Overwatch. Like he had believed in their tiny strike team throughout the first omnic crisis, Morrison never did anything half assed. Gabe would bet serious money that Morrison would absolutely rather die than admit that Overwatch may not actually be a good idea. The sunshine and glitter crap was just icing on the blond-haired-blue-eyed marionette that played Jack Morrison to the public.

 

It had taken literal years for Gabe to slowly get Morrison to stop putting on a show when they were in private and they weren’t quite there yet. Still, Gabe would count it as progress that Morrison no longer leapt to his feet to shake Gabe’s hand at the start and end of every meeting.

 

(It had been a nightmare of ‘Fantastic to see you again, Commander Reyes!’, ‘Always a delight working with you, Commander Reyes!’. _Please._ Gabe had never been a delight in his whole goddamn life.)

 

Even as trusted as he was, it was rare to see the somber soldier beneath the golden retriever puppy. The strategy of war was often equated to the strategy of chess in movies and books but one look at Jack Morrison with his guard down would be enough to dissuade anyone of that notion. The glitter would fall from his eyes, his jaw would clench and his mouth would press in on itself. Ordinarily high brows would scrunch in and his high cheekbones would turn from flattering to gaunt like it had only been a trick of the light.

 

Every single death visibly weighed on the man’s shoulders. And where there had once been glitter sparkling in his eyes, there would be cold determination. There was a reason this man had been chosen to command and occasionally, if you were lucky enough to earn his trust, you would see it raw.

 

Gabe treasured every moment of it.

 

Which was why Gabe’s own mask of anger and apathy took a hell of a beating when Jack “A Unicorn Vomited And I’m The Result” Morrison slammed open the door of the interrogation room and swore so creatively that one of the staffers turned bright red. He was pinching the bridge of his nose to stop the bleeding--oh my god was it _broken?_ \--and looked like he had a hell of a shiner forming on his left eye.

 

When Morrison looked up at him like he was ready to murder the next thing that came close enough, Gabe had to duck into an empty office and shut the door so he could double over laughing.

 

The door to the office didn’t stay closed long and Gabe had to actually hold his breath to keep quiet as Morrison slunk into the room behind him. The man looked like hell.

 

“Reyes, _knock it off._ ” Morrison hissed.

 

Gabe had to stop to gasp for breath. “Sorry, Commander. Just wish I had had a camera on me.”

 

Strike Commander Morrison did not look amused. “It’s hardly a laughing matter.”

 

“ _Disagree._ ”

 

Morrison rolled his eyes. He haphazardly tried to use the back of his hand to rub some of the blood off his face and only succeeded in moving it around. Gabe tried and failed not to laugh harder. He actually felt a little bad when he saw Morrison’s neck flush red. He didn’t mean to embarrass the guy. But it wasn’t often you got to see what Captain America would look like in Fight Club, y’know?

 

The blond super soldier huffed in frustration and ended up tugging off his shirt to use it like a towel. Like magic, Gabe suddenly was able to catch his breath without too much difficulty.

 

He didn’t think on it too hard.

 

“You weren’t in there,” Morrison’s voice came out a low growl. “I don’t know what Deadlock did to this guy, but he’s a nightmare.”

 

“I’m guessing your patriotic speech didn’t land well?” Gabe couldn’t keep the sly grin off his face when angry baby-blues glowered at him.

 

“That’s the thing. He was eating that shit up--” Morrison paused, looking surprised that the swear had come out of his own mouth and looked for a second like he was considering pulling the farm boy routine. Gabe raised an unimpressed eyebrow at him. Morrison shrugged and continued, “Even started sobbing. I could barely hear him through the sniffs and hiccups anyway, so I thought ‘what harm could it be to break protocol and get this guy a tissue?’ Well.”

 

The story stopped abruptly and Morrison looked like someone had just pissed on his birthday cake.

 

“So what, someone didn’t fall hook-line-and-sinker for the beautiful blond hero thing.” Gabe shrugged. “You’re not infallible.”

 

Morrison glanced up at him, his mouth quirked slightly. “You saying I’m pretty, Commander?”

 

“The prettiest at the whole prom,” Gabe said dryly. “Which one is this one anyway? I thought we didn’t have many Deadlocks left.”

 

“The one that shot John right in front of us.” Morrison tilted his head back a bit more, apparently still struggling to get his broken nose to calm down. Gabe heard him wince and pointedly avoided looking at the bare sculpted torso in front of him. He almost missed it when Morrison started speaking again. “Which I still can’t figure out his motive for.”

 

“Let me talk to him,” Gabe offered. He needed some air anyways.

 

Morrison leaned forward just enough to look at Gabe under thick lashes.

 

“You itching for a broken face too, Commander?”

 

_Shit._

 

“Nah,” Gabe got up and started moving towards the door. He didn’t look at Morrison at all. “Not gunna give him a show. I’m not wearing the right thong for it anyway.”

 

It was wishful thinking that told him he heard Jack Morrison mutter “Now that would be a sight” as Gabe let the door close behind him. It was lack of sleep. Too much caffeine. Not enough food that wasn’t just sugar.

 

 _Whatever._ Not his problem right now.

 

The officer standing near the door of the interrogation room handed over the wrap sheet without any fuss. If she was at all concerned about the moral purity of Commander Morrison, she didn’t show it. Which was a good thing, Gabe supposed. But he would never have anyone to joke about it with. A real shame.

 

The documents in front of him looked like the fake shit they distributed when the military trained him for interrogations. It was the kind of too-long list of serious felonies that had to belong only to a Bond villain. But he hadn’t miscounted; there were fifty-six counts of first degree murder, fourteen counts of second degree murder, seventy-three accounts of grand theft auto, and enough counts of petty larceny that Gabe stopped counting by the time he had flipped three whole goddamn pages.

 

The information box at the top was curiously blank. All that was listed was “Martinez, Jamie.”

 

Still, nothing could’ve prepared Gabe for what he saw when he walked into the interrogation room.

 

Jamie Martinez was apparently winding down from laughing his ass off, judging by the huge grin and the heavy breathing. There was a break in the skin on his forehead that bled slowly but trickled down past his eyebrow and over his eye, forcing it shut. It was probably where he’d rammed his skull into Morrison’s nose.

 

There were hundreds of other cuts and bruises peeking out from under the Deadlock leather vest, the jeans that were torn to hell and back, and the boot that was missing the top half of the sole. His brown hair was pulled back into a loose braid that didn’t quite keep his hair out of his face. The blood and messy hair still didn’t obscure the one dark brown eye that appraised him as casually as if he was choosing what to have for lunch. The grin never faltered.

 

All of this would have been run-of-the-mill except for the fact that the man in front of him was not a grown man at all--he was a _kid._

 

Gabe watched him tilt his head to rub the blood in his eye on his shoulder. When the other eye opened, it looked for all the world like he was curious. Not at all like he had taken out highly trained soldiers less than twenty-four hours prior. Not even remotely like he had an almost certain trip to death row ahead of him.

 

The file in his hands seemed useless now. It was no wonder the rainbows and butterflies hadn’t landed with this kid. Gabe whistled low under his breath. This kid hadn’t just seen hell, he’d lived it.  

 

“Lemme guess,” the kid drawled. “You’re the bad cop.”

 

Gabe snorted and moved to sit down. “Sure.”

 

The kid’s eyes narrowed as Gabe leaned back in his chair and met his gaze easily. He dropped the file in front of the kid just high enough for it to smack on the table.

 

“Know what that is?” Gabe asked.

 

“The details? Naw,” the wide grin came back. “Can’t remember most of it by now. But I reckon I got the gist of it.”

 

Gabe nodded. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”

 

They stared at each other again. Martinez’s smile dipped and wilted slowly until he had that cold calculating look that Morrison got sometimes.

 

_Interesting._

 

“How old are you? Twelve?”

 

Martinez laughed loud and hollow. “Forty-three.”

 

Gabe actually laughed at that. “You dumb, kid? You wanna be tried as an adult for all that shit?”

 

“Think it would make any difference?” Martinez’ words came out in a lazy drawl. “Ain’t gunna put me in the kiddie electric chair.”

 

Something about the ease with which he said it sat wrong with Gabe.

 

“You that ready to die?” Gabe asked.

 

Jamie Martinez shrugged and let his eyes flutter shut. “Now’s a good a time as any, I s’pose.”

 

He looked so _young._

 

Gabe scoured his memories. He remembered hearing the Deadlock leader screaming something at Martinez. He remembered hearing Martinez’ voice low saying ‘that ain’t my name.’ He remembered the way the kid laughed when he saw Gabe, like he didn’t know what was real. The same kind of delirium you got from blood loss.

 

Still, the kid hadn’t even _hesitated_ to pull the trigger on his boss. And the Deadlocks were known for hazing their recruits until all they had left rattling around their skulls was unwavering loyalty.

 

So was this kid not Deadlock? _Nah. That doesn’t match up._

 

Maybe he was the new guy? _Like the boss would ever choose the new guy to be his right hand man._ And all the scribblings in Jamie Martinez’s file indicated that he was second in command at least.

 

 _His name isn’t Jamie Martinez,_ Gabe reminded himself. _And he is definitely not forty-three._

 

_Very interesting._

 

Gabe closed the file and looked back up at the kid’s face.

 

“Alright, Jamie Martinez,” Gabe started. He did not miss the way the kid flinched at the name. “I’ll make you a deal.”

 

The kid rolled his eyes. “Bet you got some real dangerous mission or some shit that you can’t risk a real soldier on, right?” He paused briefly to stare at Gabe, unimpressed. “But hey look, some jackass gang member might be able to do it! And you swear you’ll give me freedom s’long as I don’t fuckin _die--_ ”

 

“Is that was Morrison offered you?” Gabe interrupted.

 

“Yup.”

 

Gabe ignored the way his blood boiled a little. “Nah. That offer isn’t on the table. You missed that one.”

 

The kid huffed.

 

“If you can hit more targets than me, faster than me, and without getting knocked out by me? I’ll clear your charges.”

 

Gabe felt a little smug at how quickly the kid’s jaw dropped. His eyebrows shot up and his eyes widened comically. The look was gone just as quick as it came and was replaced with a thick dose of suspicion.

 

“Why?” He asked.

 

Gabe allowed himself a small smile that (according to Morrison) scared the piss out of the newer interns. “I’m bored and you just broke Commander Morrison’s face. It sounds like fun.”

 

The kid was quiet for a long minute and briefly Gabe wondered if he was going to turn down this deal too. But he stayed silent. Begging the kid to consider his future wasn’t gunna do shit.

 

Slowly, slowly the kid let out a heavy sigh. “...Fine. But I want my gun back.”

 

“No.” Gabe said immediately. “That’s against procedure.”

 

“You ain’t followin’ procedure now with your bet, are ya?” The kid’s brown eyes flashed with a dangerous glint. He was technically smiling, but to Gabe it looked more like a snarl. “You get me my gun, or I ain’t playin’ your game.”

 

“And if you don’t play, you realize it’s a lifetime in and out of solitary?” Gabe asked, curious. “Assuming you don’t get the _kiddie chair._ ”

 

The smile got less and less convincing. Gabe swore he could actually see the hackles getting raised as the kid leaned forward to look Gabe dead in the eye. They stayed like that for a good long while, neither backing down.

 

Tiredness swept over the kid’s features like a dust storm, taking all the hard edges with it. He looked down at the file but something told Gabe he wasn’t really seeing it.

 

“I ain’t playin’ your game without my gun.” The kid’s voice was quiet but it brokered no argument. “So if you’re gunna kill me, just _do it._ ”

 

 

* * *

 

 

> **AGENT: Hanzo Shimada  
>  ****LOG DATE:** _August 19th, 2076. 1:36pm.  
>  _**LOCATION:** _Watchpoint, Gibraltar; Blackwatch Dorms.  
>  _**SUBJECT:** _Misc.: Low Priority_  

 

 _Just do it._ Hanzo stared at the grey door in front of him. _Just reach out and knock._

 

He clenched and unclenched his fingers.

 

It had seemed like a triumph when he discovered McCree in the woods. Not only had the cowboy not fooled him, but he had evidence that the man was a traitor to Overwatch. Surely that is information that would be useful to Genji. His brother may be stupidly sentimental, but he was not an idiot.

 

Usually.

 

Then again what evidence did he have other than his word?

 

He clenched and unclenched his fingers again. He felt the pads of his fingertips rough and calloused against the softer parts of his inner palm. He felt faint. This was stupid. _Just do it._

 

The door whooshed open, and the cyborg stood in front of him. If he was at all surprised to see Hanzo, it did not show. Hanzo, on the other hand, carefully schooled his features to avoid revealing his embarrassment at being caught lurking. The cyborg did not say anything. Hanzo searched the metal faceplate for some kind of indication of Genji’s mood. He knew the faceplate could come off, knew that his brother’s face was under there with all sorts of tells Hanzo could work with. But the smooth solid metal? It was unsettling.

 

As the silence continued to drag on, Hanzo realized that he hadn’t actually prepared a way to begin this conversation. How does one casually accuse someone of being a traitor? Was McCree particularly popular? Would this be received with relief or pain?

 

He had been so stupid, this was a stupid plan, he hadn’t even _considered--_

 

“Do you plan on coming in? Or…?” Genji sounded amused.

 

Hanzo blanched, trying very hard not to think about the fact that he’d just been staring his brother down silently. “I… Yes. If you would permit me to.”

 

Genji remained still, blocking further entrance to his room.

 

“This was a mistake,” Hanzo muttered. He turned to leave but Genji caught him by his shoulder. His hand was cold. Hanzo could hear the joints whirring.

 

“My apologies, brother,” Genji let go and stepped back a few paces. “It is still so novel to see you outside of my memories.”

 

There was a lump in Hanzo’s throat that he resolutely ignored. He hummed instead of responding and stepped in.

 

The room was definitely Genji’s. There were clothes strewn everywhere, each item of clothing more ridiculous than the last. There were a series of dragon figurines on a shelf that looked messily painted. Four separate posters were tacked up unevenly, each displaying unrealistic poses from those mech animes he always loved. The bedside table was littered with small picture frames, each blinking through a slideshow of photos and art. The only spot that remained clear of junk was the wooden altar that held his brother’s sword. Hanzo would have recognized it anywhere.

 

His fingers twitched at his side, wanting to hold onto the bow he’d left in his room as a gesture of goodwill. The whoosh of the door shutting felt far too much like the snapping shut of a bear trap.

 

“Please, sit,” Genji gestured to the flat cot.

 

Hanzo blinked at it. It was unmade-- _of course it was unmade;_ how many fights had come from Genji refusing to do his chores?--and definitely the only furniture in the room. Hanzo frowned at his brother.

 

“I do not wish to take the only seat in your… ah, home.” He trailed off awkwardly.

 

Genji made a weird noise from under his face mask and artfully slipped around Hanzo to flop on the bed. He leaned against the pile of pillows (and… stuffed vegetable plushies? Curious.) and gestured for Hanzo to sit at the other end. Hanzo eyed the mattress dubiously and cautiously took his spot.

 

“What is wrong, brother?” Genji asked.

 

Hanzo bristled. “I am fine. Nothing is _wrong._ ”

 

Genji laughed and it sounded muffled. Hanzo clenched his jaw and looked at the photos again. One faded into an old replica of a photo from their youth. Back when Genji had dyed his hair green.

 

His chest felt tight. He coughed.

 

“I… Nothing is wrong,” Hanzo started again carefully, still keeping his eyes on the photos. Some featured Genji without his face mask on. “I merely wished to talk.”

 

The whirring of Genji’s… gears? got louder and Hanzo risked looking at his brother. A metal hand came up to grip the metal faceplate and carefully unhook it. Hanzo’s breath caught in his throat and he temporarily forgot his intentions. If Genji at all realized Hanzo’s plight, he still didn’t deign to slow down.

 

Silver scars scratched across his face at random, breaking the line of his brows, cutting through his lip and across his nose. Scars that Hanzo vividly remembered red and bleeding, remembered watching him struggle not to choke on his own blood as he pleaded.

 

 _ Sore wa anata no gimudeshita ([x](http://imgur.com/iYvpW1Q))_ _,_ the dragons in his skin hissed. _ Hitsuyō_ _. ([x](http://imgur.com/KOMtAxB)) _ _ Yamuwoenai. ([x](http://imgur.com/5qd2mFN))_

 

Genji was saying something and laughing but Hanzo sat stunned. It was the first time the dragons had spoken to him since… _Since._ He had assumed they would not forgive him for slaying their brethren, but the voices hissed defiantly in the back of his mind, clawing to the forefront of his mind.

 

 _ Hitsuyō ([x](http://imgur.com/KOMtAxB))_, they breathed in unison, louder in his left ear. _Kare wa hankō shite wa ikemasen. ([x](http://imgur.com/PFk5AdQ))_

 

“ _[Stop it!]_ ”

 

Genji and the dragons quieted, but only Genji looked stunned. Hanzo pressed a his hand to his left arm, gripping the skin too hard as if he hoped to physically contain the dragons; usher them back into the silence he had assumed righteous anger for his brother’s death.

 

They would have known, the thought rattled through him. They would have known if their kin hand truly died. They would have known and they did not say anything.

 

 _ Hitsuyō ([x](http://imgur.com/KOMtAxB))_, the dragons replied easily.

 

“Hanzo?”

 

He hadn’t realized he had hunkered over so badly until Genji’s face materialized to block the harsh stare he was giving the mattress. His eyebrows were raised in concern.

 

“Are you alright?”

 

Hanzo pushed himself back abruptly (startling Genji into a crouch) and pressed his back against the wall at the end of the cot. He couldn’t stop breathing so quickly. If it kept up he would hyperventilate and throw up in his not-dead brother’s room. Hanzo looked around frantically for something to focus on and again there were the electronic photo frames, flicking through picture after picture.

 

One showed Genji standing next to the doctor, giving the camera a thumbs up. Was she the one to save him?

 

The next showed Genji in formal wear, saluting a blonde man in military uniform. The blond man looked familiar but--

 

Then there was a photo of Genji throwing up a peace sign as a much taller man in a cowboy hat had his arm slung around his brother’s neck playfully. Without the beard, Hanzo almost didn’t recognize him but it was definitely, _absolutely--_

 

“I am going to call for Angela. The doctor,” Genji’s voice came in gently as Hanzo’s pulse slowed.

 

“No,” Hanzo tried hard not to wheeze. “I am fine.”

 

Genji shot him the same look he’d given Hanzo when Hanzo had announced he was going to study archery as well as swordsmanship. “You are not fine.”

 

“I will be,” he said tersely. “It has passed.”

 

“It?”

 

Hanzo shook his head, frustrated. “That is not why… I did not wish to intrude upon you in this way. This was _not_ what I had planned.”

 

Genji actually laughed.

 

“I do not doubt that, brother. Hardly anyone plans for panic attacks.” Hanzo’s face must have been comical, since Genji cracked up again. “I cannot expect you believed speaking to your presumed dead brother to be simple? Even for you, Hanzo, there are some things that will always remain difficult.”

 

Hanzo snorted. “Such wisdom from a man with _Naruto_ posters.”

 

“Ah, there he is,” Genji relaxed against his pillows again and gestured at Hanzo dramatically. “My asshole brother.”

 

Hanzo scowled.

 

“So what was your plan?” Genji asked. “Did you have a speech?”

 

 _Oh._ Preparing something to say. That would have been clever. Hanzo sighed. “No. No speech.”

 

“...but?” Genji prompted.

 

“But,” Hanzo conceded but couldn’t quite keep the irritation from his voice. “But, there is something. You may not like it.”

 

“I was not thrilled to be cut up like sushi, but I lived,” Genji said blandly. Hanzo’s gaze snapped up at his brother, horrified. Genji shrugged. “Grim humor helps. I recommend it.”

 

Hanzo had to force himself to ignore _whatever the fuck that was_ and push forward.

 

“You and Agent McCree,” he paused. “Are you close?”

 

Genji watched him closely, his face unreadable. He adjusted his weight and looked out of the bedside window thoughtfully. Metal fingers tapped on his chin. “Very,” he said. “He learned Japanese so that I would have someone to speak to when I woke. Saved my life as many times as I saved his.”

 

Genji didn’t even pause before driving the knife home in Hanzo’s gut. “He was like a brother to me.”

 

Hanzo stared at his hands and made a conscious effort to note the sensation of his pants against his fingertips. _I am real, and here, this is real, and it is here._

 

“I understand that cannot be easy to hear,” Genju continued, “but if we are to have any chance at rebuilding any kind of relationship, I will not risk adding further obstacle by gentling the truth for you--”

 

“I do not need to be _coddled,_ ” Hanzo interrupted.

 

“If we have any chance,” Genji repeated, meeting his eyes steadily, “then you must understand that I forgive you. But I have not forgotten.”

 

Hanzo’s anger fell away with the floor of his stomach.

 

 _ Hitsuyō ([x](http://imgur.com/KOMtAxB))_ _,_ the dragons echoed themselves.

 

He swallowed thickly. He did not look away from Genji’s eyes. He owed him that much. “I came here to warn you. I cannot stay with Overwatch for many reasons, but you ought not either.”

 

Genji opened his mouth to interrupt but Hanzo held up a hand. “There are already traitors within your ranks. Perhaps you know this, but I could not risk silence. I will not be responsible for your death twice.”

 

His brother’s eyes widened sharply in surprise, then confusion, then anger. “How could you possibly--”

 

“Agent McCree. He has been working with a third party,” Hanzo bulldozed onward. _Rip it off like a band-aid._ “He is not loyal to Overwatch.”

 

“Hah!” Genji barked out a laugh. “I should hope not! It killed everyone he held dear. Still, you would have to be a fool to think he would ever risk putting his friends in danger. Jesse cares more about us than--”

 

“ _[A fool forgets that only an ally can betray you.]_ ” Hanzo quoted their father, just to be petty.

 

It worked. The youthful face in front of him twisted in anger and Genji moved quickly to his feet. Hanzo mirrored him and again desperately wished for his bow. _Would it have helped? Would I even fire if given the chance? Would I--_

 

“ _[You dare bring that bullshit into my home?]_ ” Genji’s voice lowered to a snarl. “ _This is not the Shimada empire, brother. We do not treat our kin as_ disposable _. No one here would hurt me.]_ ”

 

“ _[You once thought the same of me, too.]_ ” The words left Hanzo’s mouth, defiant.

 

 _ Hitsuyō ([x](http://imgur.com/KOMtAxB))_ _,_ twin voices chimed in his head, sliding from left to right. The hurt look Genji gave him made him feel cold.

 

 _Anata wo koko ni irubekide wa arimasen.  _([x](http://imgur.com/rmEIMx2))

 

He turned swiftly and left his brother’s room.

 

 

* * *

 

 

> **AGENT: Gabriel Reyes  
>  ****LOG DATE:** _January 29th, 2056. 5:37pm.  
>  _**LOCATION:** _Watchpoint, Gibraltar.  
>  _**SUBJECT:** _Blackwatch Logs: Marked Confidential_

 

He was halfway down the hallway leading to his quarters when broad hands spun him around and shoved him against the wall. Distantly, Gabe thought it was a good thing they’d gotten the good shit instead of drywall. Staring him in the face was a furious Jack Morrison.

 

“What the _fuck_ are you thinking Gabriel?” He snarled. “You read that wrap sheet, you saw what he did to my face, and you want to arm him? Are you fucking joking? I cannot _believe_ you would have him _armed_ with _non-regulation, non-standard--_ ”

 

Morrison kept growling shit like he didn’t have a bright green band-aid stretched across his nose but Gabe fixated on what the commander had called him. Not Reyes. Not Commander. _Gabriel._

 

“Do you trust me?” Gabe blurted.

 

Morrison blinked once. Twice. “I… Of course I trust you, Commander Reyes.”

 

“Jack,” Gabe tried the name experimentally. He saw a bit of red creep up over the top of the commander’s ears. Morrison still looked like he was going to splutter out something so Gabe cut him off. “Does sending this kid to supermax sit well with you?”

 

Morrison’s grip on his shoulders relaxed and Gabe immediately missed it. “No. No, it doesn’t.”

 

“Then trust me.” Gabe held Morrison’s eyes with his own. He ignored the way his pulse sped up. He ignored the way Jack’s lips were just slightly parted, so close--

 

“Fine,” Morrison let go, and Gabe felt cold where his touch had been. A bit of fire returned to the commander’s eyes. “How much paperwork is this going to cost me?”

  
Gabe grinned.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. It was your duty. Necessary. Unavoidable.  
> 2\. Necessary. He ought not have rebelled.  
> 3\. Necessary.  
> 4\. Necessary.  
> 5\. Necessary.  
> 6\. You should not be here. 
> 
> Ok, so I reaaaaaaally struggle to write from Hanzo's POV, so please please let me know if something seems out of character or weird. idk why but the angry samurai guy just will not cooperate with me. HOW PREDICTABLE. 
> 
> Anyway, pleaaaase let me know what you think of how Hanzo's written! Tips, tricks, anything. 
> 
> Also, the Japanese was yanked straight from Google Translate, so feel free to correct that too!


	8. Bits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooooo boy this one took awhile. Hopefully I made up for it in length. 
> 
> Welcome to the plot proper, folks!

* * *

 

 

 

 

> **AGENT: Hanzo Shimada  
>  ****LOG DATE:** _August 20th, 2076. 2:01am.  
>  _**LOCATION:** _Watchpoint, Gibraltar; Blackwatch Dorms.  
>  _**SUBJECT:** _Misc.: Low Priority_

 

It was Genji that had given him the hiding spot, actually. He had asked Hanzo to join him and his teacher for meditation; something about healing the harm that came from harsh words. Hanzo had very politely declined, given that he was vastly more concerned with the not-so metaphorical harm that came from the gun of a traitor. But he did begin meditating (see: monitoring movements) on the Watchpoint rooftops whenever he could. And so the next time Jesse McCree set foot outside of the watchpoint complex, Hanzo was already at a vantage point, armed, and ready to chase him down.

 

He was successful in following “Jamie Martinez” through the transport, although where they landed seemed like an accident. There was shoulder height grass that grew thick and rusty gold without wilting. The upright stalks pressed tightly together, wound themselves into braids and knots, and whistled against a soft warm breeze. Only moonlight shone down harsh and white against the very top of the blades, outlining them with dew.

 

Thankfully, Agent McCree was tall and broad enough that his passing through the tall grass left visibly dented foliage in his wake. Even if Hanzo could not see far enough above the grass line to follow visually, tracking McCree was like tracking a bear that had mauled its way through a linen store--the sheets were in-tact, but it was obvious there had been a fucking _bear_.

 

 _He was like a brother to me,_ Genji’s voice echoed more confidently in his head now than he remembered hearing it in person. Like a bad cough he couldn’t shake free, the words kept replaying on loop. _He was like a brother to me. He was like a brother to me._

 

It was therefore of the utmost importance that Hanzo’s information was good. He would not bring something that Genji could so easily dismiss. He would not be the one to deprive Genji of _family_ twice. Not without reason.

 

 _Necessary,_ his dragons hissed.

 

Even if Genji’s new _family_ unironically wore spurs.

 

He pushed through another armful of grass. Energy rippled through his arm and threatened to shock him where his spine connected to his skull. He batted the feeling away.

 

 _Unavoidable,_ they snarled.

 

Even if this cowboy clearly had no sense of loyalty, duty, or honour.

 

 _A fools errand. It does not honor us,_ wind shrieked past him and made the dragons sound shrill. _It does not honour Shimada._

 

Hanzo swallowed. Agent McCree had refrained from wearing the horrid boots on this particular outing at least.

 

The dents in the tall grass gave way sharply to a barren cliffside. Even in the moonlight the soil was a vibrant red; cracked, dry, and dusty. Making his way down the ravine was McCree, not seeming to mind the dust clouds he kicked up in his wake. When he made it to the very bottom, McCree paused at one of the vertical rocks that peppered the landscape. It had been broken at the base and was leaned flat against the cliffside. With great effort, the cowboy moved the stone just slightly, and crawled through a tiny opening Hanzo couldn’t see the detail of from where he was hidden.

 

He wouldn’t be able to follow McCree, he realized. His lungs went cold and the air was suddenly too dry. He wouldn’t be able to convince Genji. He wouldn’t be able to stop whatever this was from harming his brother.

 

 _He was like a brother to me,_ Genji’s voice reminded him. _He never tried to kill me,_ Genji’s voice didn’t need to say.

 

 _Necessary_ , the dragons insisted. _An enemy to the well being of the clan._

 

Hanzo frowned. Then an idea formed. He let his eyes drift shut and focused on the restless energy awakened in his arm.

 

 _And you would protect the clan still? After all this?_ He asked.

 

 _We are Shimada_ , the dragons responded. _We protect Shimada from that which harms it._

 

 _Then protect me,_ Hanzo urged. _Lend me your sight so that I may live on._

 

The dragons fell silent. _He was like a brother to me,_ Genji’s voice chimed in.

 

 _McCree is a brother to the traitor,_ the dragons accused. _Complicit. Complicit!_

 

Hanzo’s scowl deepened. _I was the traitor, not Genj--_

 

Before he could finish the thought, the muscles in his arm felt like they were simultaneously drenched in ice water and set ablaze.

 

_You would harm the Shimada name? You would harm us? You--_

 

“No!” Hanzo hadn’t meant to speak out loud; he clamped his hand over his mouth. _No. You were right. Agent McCree is a threat._

 

 _We shall kill him,_ the serpents replied. Instantly, as if they hadn’t remained dormant for the better part of a decade, ghostly figures lifted from his arm. _We shall kill him and keep Shimada safe--_

 

 _Not yet,_ Hanzo added hastily. _Right now I need only your eyes, not your teeth._

 

 _Unwise, young master,_ they crooned. Hanzo shivered.

 

_It was an order, not a request._

 

For a second, Hanzo held his breath, waiting to feel them leave his arm, waiting to hear McCree’s screeches as proof of their disobedience. But when he opened his eyes, he saw through the eyes of a dragon. He was maybe two inches off the ground, squat and longer than the tip to tail of an average cat. Around him,  a glowing sheen of blue covered everything he saw like the world’s most impractical heat vision.

 

Still, he muttered a quiet _thank you_ to the dragons both and scuttled into the open maw in the cliff.

 

The dusty red walls of the cavern quickly gave way to metal paneling. A generator sat in the corner of the hallway with Agent McCree bent down, carefully adding a new battery before taking out one of the old ones. The old was tucked away into the inside of his jacket before he stood up and brushed off the tops of his knees.

 

Cords ran from the generator like spider webs, linking to shoddily attached fluorescent lights that peppered the walls in a pale glow not dissimilar to the natural moonlight outside. More clinical--less warm, somehow. They illuminated something like a hallway, leading deeper into the cavern.

 

Hanzo skittered up the wall while his back was turned, using sharp talons to dig into the ceiling of the cave before he followed McCree further into… Whatever this was. One sharp right took them to a room that had been cleared out. Metal paneling did more here than just support the walls. Screens, buttons, and diagnostic equipment littered the walls and flooring, each low tech enough to be adequately supported by the generator in the hall.

 

Except for the liquid glass containment cell built into the corner of the room. It looked like an unstable version of the thing the doctor had used to contain Hanzo after Agent McCree had knocked him out. Live currents of electricity spit and sparked off the surface of it, and the liquid glass didn’t flow so much as shudder into the shape of a wall. Despite the distortion, Hanzo could still see clearly the shape of a man being kept behind the barrier.

 

The man was older. Grey streaked through brown curls cropped short to his head, and touched at the edges of an unkempt beard. His dark skin was tinged green through the glass (and blue again through the eyes of the dragon), but his expression was unmistakably fixed on Agent McCree’s back, watching as the cowboy moved from screen to screen, jotting down what he found in a small paper notebook.

 

The man’s eyebrows furrowed harshly, and the severe lines of his face gave him a permanent scowl. Still, for a prisoner, he seemed unconcerned. He was sprawled out with his head and back pressed against the dusty wall, and his elbows rested on the tops of bent knees. His hands hung loosely.

 

Something about him was wrong. Hanzo could feel it in the growing distress of his dragon host. Unlike Agent McCree, this man had no traces of human electricity. His was solid and still in the same way the machines around him were. There was no pulse he could feel. No blood he could smell.

 

Hanzo was about to dismiss the oddity as the effect of the glass wall, when the man lurched forward and slammed his entire person against the barrier without warning. Except he never actually got up so much as re-materialized in the shape of a person slamming into the wall. Hanzo stared, trying to think if the man had stood up normally and he had just blinked and missed it, or--?

 

“I see you’re holdin’ up nicely,” McCree sounded unbothered from where he squatted, still jotting something down. “No change in your signature waves--s’good. You in one of your moods tonight?”

 

“You cannot keep me here,” the man’s voice was all growl--nothing human about it. As his shoulders and jaw moved, little clouds of black separated from his skin and re-settled as he stilled. “You are a fool to think--”

 

“Not that you ain’t right about wherever you’re goin’ with that,” McCree rocked back on his heels until he was sprawled out in a cheap mimicry of the position the captive man (thing) had started in. “But I ain’t really here to wax philosophy with you an’ I doubt threatening me is still entertaining.”

 

The captive man grinned wickedly, his teeth a little too long and pale for a moment until the black dust settled into a human shape around them. “I never grow tired of threatening you, _pendejo._ ”

 

Agent McCree snorted. “Now y’sound more like yourself.”

 

“Or maybe you just bring out the worst in everyone,” the man shot back. “Ever think that you might be the common denominator?”

 

“Undoubtedly,” McCree said blandly. “But I ain’t a living corpse that’s bustin’ in and out of tangible form, y’see? You’re still the most interesting party here.”

 

The man snorted and took a step back from the barrier. His posture relaxed. “Well? Did you bring anything? Or you just wanna visit your old man, _mijo?_ ”

 

McCree’s expression darkened. The cowboy didn’t respond. He plucked one of the devices off the floor and rested it on his knee until he could pull a flash drive from his pockets. The device was unceremoniously plugged in. A couple other screens around him flickered as the piece in his lap pulled more energy from the generator to download and implement the new data.

 

Black smoke hissed from the ceiling behind the liquid glass barrier. The man took startled paces backwards, then panicked. He rammed his shoulder into the barrier hard enough that it briefly curved to its shape. McCree was on his feet again.

 

“Easy, Reyes--”

 

The man--Reyes--howled and fell to his knees, clutching at his head. A muscle in McCree’s jaw flinched. He squeezed his hands into fists at his sides, one hovering over the holster of his gun. The smoke mixed in with the man like the black dust particles. Hanzo risked a few paces closer. It was dust--large bits of dust, but it didn’t move in the same mindless way. Each piece was magnetized to the core of the man’s form.

 

 _Nanotech_ , Hanzo thought.

 

As the new bots settled into the man’s skin, his screaming quieted. He heaved breaths that knocked clouds loose and fell from his lips like cigarette smoke before returning to his body. His hands (clawed at the tips, Hanzo noted) still cradled the sides of his head.

 

“...You with me, boss?” McCree’s voice was gentler. Wary.

 

The man looked up sharply and seemed surprised. “Jesse?”

 

Agent McCree’s whole stance relaxed. Hanzo couldn’t see the look on his face clearly, but  “Yeah, boss. S’me.”

 

Slowly Reyes lowered his hands from his head. He jolted in surprise when he caught a glimpse of his own claws, slowly moving them in front of his face like the shape and the smoke trails were equally horrifying. He looked around himself slowly, staring at the liquid glass like it was new. His gaze gradually slid back to McCree.

 

Hanzo did not miss the way the agent flinched this time.

 

“What the hell is going on, _mijo?_ ”

 

McCree sighed and leaned his weight on one leg. “Was hopin’ you could tell me, actually. What d’you remember?”

 

Reyes scrunched up his nose in focus. “We were in Egypt--”

 

“What year?” McCree interrupted.

 

Reyes blinked at him like he was crazy. “[Year consistent with this timeline]. Why? What year is it?”

 

McCree puffed out a breath and dug in his pockets for a cigar. He lit up, inhaled deeply, then answered on his exhale. “A long-ass time away from where we need you to be. Better than last time, though.”

 

“Last time?” Reyes managed to look more confused than ever. It was such a stark difference from the face of the predator he had worn minutes before. The man squinted suspiciously at Agent McCree. “You have a beard.”

 

McCree laughed sharply at that. “You say that every time. What’s so damn surprisin’ about it?”

 

“And you’re…” Reyes gestured vaguely. “Huge. What the fuck did you do, _pendejo?_ ”

 

“Grew up, boss.” McCree grinned.

 

Reyes didn’t look at all appeased. “You wanna clarify what the fuck’s going on, _mijo?_ Why the fuck am I in a cell?”

 

“You ain’t been yourself, is the short of it,” McCree gestured at him with the hand holding the cigar. The metal caught Reyes’ eyes and immediately the scowl was replaced with abject horror. The man was on his feet again in seconds.

 

“ _What the fuck happened to your arm?_ ”

 

“Went out for a pack’a smokes. Should be back any day now.” McCree said dryly. “Not important right now. You might’a noticed you ain’t exactly human.”

 

Reyes didn’t deign to respond. He was still starting at the metal arm suspiciously.

 

“That’d be ‘cuz you died, boss.” McCree said it so nonchalantly that for a moment, Reyes didn’t react at all. When he looked McCree in the face properly, the cowboy continued. “Talon managed to get a hold of you, somehow. Got your data, or something. And programmed nanotech to be… well.”

 

McCree gestured at Reyes vaguely.

 

The man stared back at him. “I died.”

 

“Yep.”

 

“ _I died?_ ”

 

“Oh, ‘bout three years ago.” McCree took another drag from his cigar. “You bombed UN headquarters. Killed thousands. Including Jack.”

 

“What?” Reyes staggered back, his shoulders hitting the dusty wall behind him . “Jack died? No. I wouldn’t-- I could never--”

 

McCree raised a hand and shushed him gently. “Yeah, I know. S’what the news said. Comforting to hear that you circa [Year] still aren’t on board with mass murder.”

 

Reyes stared at McCree helplessly. His voice was hoarse. “You have to believe me, _mijo._ I would never. Not to Jack.”

 

“I believe you,” McCree nodded. “You’re pretty shit at flirting, but you’re not the kinda guy to go suicide bombing just to get his crush’s attention.”

 

“What?” Reyes squawked. “It’s not like that! He’s a friend, Jesse. How dare you be so insubordinate--”

 

“Oh come, _on._ ” McCree pivoted on his feet and Hanzo pressed himself flat against the ceiling panels just in case. “I thought you two were open about your whole thing in [year]. You tellin’ me I gotta steal more shit just to get you to stop pretending you ain’t stickin’ it to the Commander?”

 

“ _Pendejo--_ ”

 

“Filin’ his paperwork?”

 

“Jesse--”

 

“Givin’ his soldier your salute?”

 

“ _Stop!_ ” Reyes barked. McCree fell silent, but the snicker in the silence told Hanzo that it wasn’t from anything akin to respect or deference. Reyes dragged a hand down his face and for a moment, Hanzo deeply empathized.

 

The two men talked for hours on end. Reyes would ask Agent McCree what had happened since Egypt, and McCree would patiently go over the details. Then McCree would try to pry as much information about Talon out of Reyes as he could. Often to no avail, but occasionally he would jot something down in his little notebook. They continued this until they were both wilted on the floor in exhaustion.

 

McCree has not slept in over 48 hours, Hanzo realized when the cowboy yawned for the millionth time.

 

Reyes broke the silence. “Talon has to know I’m missing by now. They’ll be hunting me down.”

 

“Not quite,” McCree said with a wince. “Our plan’s been working pretty good so far.”

 

Reyes narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Our plan?”

 

“Okay, my plan--”

 

“Mijo are you doing something stupid?”

 

McCree flinched. “Probably. Just…”

 

Hanzo strained forward but couldn’t catch the low jumble of words.

 

“What was that?” Reyes demanded. “What did you just say?”

 

“Said I’m just. Y’know. Takin’ the missions they send you. For now.” McCree scratched the back of his head and looked pointedly at the device on his lap instead of at Reyes.

 

That seemed to be a good call.

 

“You what?” Reyes exploded. He was on his feet again in seconds. McCree groaned and flopped backwards onto the ground. “You’re working for Talon? What the fuck are you thinking--”

 

“No,” McCree interrupted, waving a hand in front of him to deny the accusation. “Technically you’re working for Talon. I’m just your proxy.”

 

“Have you killed innocent people, McCree?” Reyes hissed.

 

“Ain’t no such creature,” McCree dodged.

 

“Jesse--”

 

McCree sat up suddenly and fixed Reyes with a glare. “Look. They ain’t lookin’ for you cuz they don’t know you’ve gone AWOL. When I take the data I added out of your system, you’re so damn loyal to them that you’re more than happy to have me finish the jobs for you. Ain’t no problem to Reaper s’long as the enemies of Talon die.”

 

He paused. His voice was softer when he continued. “And that keeps you here. Safe.” Another pause. “Where I can work on gettin’ you back.”

 

Reyes stayed quiet for a long time, his jaw working like he wanted desperately to say something, spit something out.

 

“And no, I ain’t gunna just kill you.” McCree added with more than a little bitterness. “You suggest it every time, sayin’ shit like ‘let me go, _mijo._ My life isn’t worth the lives of Overwatch agents,’ or civilians or whatever and it’s… It just ain’t an option, boss.”

 

Reyes stared at McCree again. He looked so much older, so much more like a dead man walking.

 

He nodded almost imperceptibly. “When? When will I turn back into… Reaper? Did you call me Reaper?”

 

McCree huffed out another lungful of smoke and stared pointedly at his device. “Soon. In a couple’a minutes, maybe. Can’t risk leavin’ you with evidence of your memory returning in case… Well.”

 

“In case Talon finds me.” Reyes said.

 

“Yeah.”

 

The air in the room was heavy and Hanzo suddenly felt like he was intruding. There was nothing more that he needed to see here tonight. Nothing concrete enough to take back to Genji, but… It was enough for now. So he let himself return to where his body was lying motionless on the cliffside, and quickly made his way back to the Watchpoint.

 

His dragons stayed mercifully silent the whole time.

 

 

* * *

 

 

> **AGENT: Jesse J. McCree  
>  ****LOG DATE:** _August 21st, 2076. 2:12pm.  
>  _**LOCATION:** _Watchpoint, Gibraltar; Hangar Bay.  
>  _**SUBJECT:** _Misc.: Low Priority_

 

There had been a running joke in Blackwatch: nothing’s ever simple, nothing’s ever quick. With the way McCree’s morning had been going, honestly this wasn’t a surprise. First, Winston had told them about a new mission. One he apparently had expected McCree, Tracer, and Genji to handle all on their lonesome.

 

Well, plus a giant omnic bastion soldier.

 

“He’s harmless,” the scientist had insisted. “Well. Not _harmless_ , per se. But he’s on our side.”

 

It beeped at them. And _waved._

 

Lena had-- _rightfully_ \--expressed extreme dubiousness to the suggestion. She was polite to a fault though and while her dramatic hand gestures and idioms were utterly lost on Winston, McCree seemed to finally get the point home.

 

“What Ms. Oxton is saying,” McCree had interrupted, “Is that she wouldn’t be surprised that Death Toaster over here might hold a grudge against Overwatch--given that we spent the better half of a decade trying our best to quash all omnic forces. Y’know. ‘Cuz they wanted us dead.”

 

“They wanted _freedom,_ ” Genji interjected unhelpfully. McCree shot him a _look._

 

“And that Ms. Oxton’s hangar jet here got to be a bit famous.” McCree gestured over his shoulder at the loading dock. “Kinda our callin’ sign for showing up and uh…”

 

“Raising hell?” Genji added, slightly more helpfully.

 

“Exactly,” Lena nodded enthusiastically.

 

About half a hundred sad boops and an hour later, they had stopped trying to convince Winston to reconsider the idea. The point seemed moot when the gorilla pointed at the robot, who had wandered off to go whistle at some birds.

 

(Genji’s faint _“aww”_ didn’t help the situation much either.)

 

But still, they had managed to haul the unit (“Bastion”, Genji had apparently nicknamed it) onto the jet (Genji had also insisted on buckling it’s seatbelt), and had all their weapons, ammo, and health packs carefully tucked away in their respective containers. All the maps were triple checked, and the drop-off/pick-up points were marked with digital pins that got transmitted instantly to everyone’s headsets.

 

McCree had checked his own armour about thirty times over and kept running over his canisters of spare ammo with nervous fingers. Not that it was a particularly difficult mission. It was pretty basic; just get in, grab a Talon hard-drive, get out. A hard-drive full of information that could get him into a lot of trouble but, He was probably in trouble anyways.

 

Still, with all their checking and double checking, somehow not a single person had managed to stumble across a sleeping, heavily armed samurai. One that seemed not at all pleased about being woken from his hiding spot by the hangar jet taking off into the air.

 

It was McCree who got the pleasure of having an arrow pointed towards his face because _of course_.

 

He couldn’t even be bothered to give Genji’s brother a proper eye-roll. Didn’t seem to be needed, anyway, as the cyborg launched himself across the hangar to knock Hanzo flat on his back.

 

“Brother, what the hell are you doing?” Genji’s voice demanded.

 

“What am _I_ doing?” Hanzo sounded incredulous. “ _[What are you doing on an armed vessel with a traitor?]_ ”

 

 _Traitor?_ McCree kept his face neutral.

 

The green light in Genji’s visor thinned, irritated. He struggled to wrestle Hanzo away from his bow with minimal success. “ _[We are not going over this again. McCree is not a traitor.]_ ”

 

 _Shit._ McCree ran his fingers over his ammo canisters again. Maybe he hadn’t convinced Hanzo that he’d tailed him after all. That could make things complicated.

 

“ _[Then have him explain--]_ ”

 

Hanzo finally succeeded in throwing Genji off of him and scrambled again for his bow. He aimed the arrow tip at McCree’s head again (ignoring Genji’s stream of swears) and tried to keep his shaky hand steady. The man’s hair had been yanked out of the carefully tied knot and his jacket was all askew, showing the faint indents of bruising that came from sleeping in places you weren’t supposed to sleep. Still, those dark eyes were locked onto McCree’s like a promise.

 

“Explain to my brother why you snuck off the base under a fake name, Mr. Jamie Martinez.”

 

McCree blinked. _Shit._

 

Hanzo had not only not been fooled by McCree’s bullshit, he’d gone and fuckin’ investigated him. _Shit, double shit._

 

And there was _record_ of that. _Shit, shit, shit._

 

“Well,” McCree heaved a dramatic sigh, stalling. “Hadn’t really wanted to talk about it, t’be honest.”

 

Hanzo let out a sharp laugh. “I am not surprised.”

 

McCree glared and slowly raised up his metal hand, waggling the fingers as patronizingly as he could manage. “Still not really ready to talk ‘bout how it happened--never mind the maintenance it requires.”

 

Not technically a lie. Sort of.

 

Hanzo wasn’t buying it. The man still had the arrow nocked and ready to fly but out of the corner of McCree’s eye, he saw Genji stiffen. He tried hard to ignore the pang of guilt in his chest.

 

“Jesse, ignore my brother,” Genji had given up on trying to wrestle the weapon away from Hanzo and instead stood between them both, outstretched arms bodily shielding McCree from harm. “You do not have to divulge the details of your arm to anyone until you are ready to do so.”

 

The pang went from a dull aching thing to outright stabbing. He didn’t deserve that. McCree clenched his teeth shut until his jaw hurt, physically trying to prevent himself from spilling everything.

 

 _Goddamnit, Gabe,_ he thought. _This better be fuckin’ worth it._

 

“Landing soon, loves!” Tracer’s voice was just a bubbly coming disembodied over the intercom as it was in person, and it sliced through the tension like a knife.

 

All three men fell silent. Hanzo lowered his bow, but didn’t once move his gaze from McCree.

 

“Well,” Genji sounded tired. His robotic arms fell to his sides limply. “There is no point in turning around just to drop you off, brother. I trust you can remain in the hangar until we finish the mission?”

 

“No, absolutely not.” McCree spoke on top of whatever Hanzo’s response was going to be. “Ain’t no one else bothered that he managed to sneak on board this ship to begin with? Was Athena busy gettin’ updates or some shit?”  


“I assure you that updates do not prevent my monitoring, Agent McCree,” Athena’s voice said.

 

McCree cringed. “That’s somehow worse.”

 

“Do you have any other suggestions?” Genji asked.

 

“Unfortunately, I do” McCree hesitated, looking the archer up and down. He didn’t like this. “Hanzo comes with me.”

 

“I do not need babysitting,” Hanzo bristled. “I will wait here--”

 

“Leave the kin-killer with the billion dollar equipment and high powered weaponry? With access to the control panel of a flying tank?” If McCree snapped a little harder than necessary, he decided not to acknowledge it. Hanzo’s knuckles went white with tension where he gripped his bow. McCree bulldozed on. “Over my dead fuckin’ body.”

 

“That can be arranged, _cowboy._ ”

 

“ _Enough,_ ” Genji stepped between them and McCree suddenly felt very much like he used to when Gabe caught him pouring salt in Commander Morrison’s cereal. “Hanzo, please. Just stay with McCree for the duration of the mission. I have to monitor Bastion for any glitches and cannot afford to have my attention split three ways.”

 

Hanzo stared hard at his brother and his face went through a truly impressive array of reactions finally landing on… _Guilty?_

 

_Now that’s fuckin’ fascinating._

 

McCree let his irritation go with a sigh and softened his voice before trying again. “C’mon, Shimada. I know you don’t like me, and I don’t like you, but it’s a short mission. Ain’t nothing that’s gunna make us sit down and talk feelings, y’know?”

 

He reached out his good hand like a peace offering. Hanzo stared at it, at Genji, at McCree, and then back at the hand. He said nothing as he stalked back to the other side of the hangar jet and buckled in for landing.

 

Genji turned and shrugged.

 

 _Well,_ he thought. _S’progress._

 

 

* * *

 

 

> **AGENT: Jesse McCree  
>  ****LOG DATE:** _August 21st, 2076. 7:52pm.  
>  _**LOCATION:** Numbani, Africa _.  
>  _**SUBJECT:** _Recovery Mission Ops: Record_

 

“Is this what all short missions look like to you?”

 

Hanzo wasn’t expending any effort to hide his stupid smug face and McCree almost wished he hadn’t promised Genji he wouldn’t shoot his kin.

 

“Believe it or not,” McCree growled, “This ambush was unexpected.”

He did not expect to start the morning arguing with a gorilla about the merits of a recently reformed omnic unit. He had not expected to have an arrow pointed at his face in the comfort of the Overwatch hangar jet. And there was no doubt in his mind when he woke up this morning that there was no circumstance on this godforsaken planet where he would end up teamed up with the same fuck-face that had tried to kill his best friend, at the insistence of the aforementioned best friend.

 

 _‘We have no time to recalculate a plan,_ Genji had said.

 

 _‘It’s for the good of the mission,'_ Genji had said.

 

 _‘I will give you both the cold shoulder of a goddamn lifetime if you two don’t pull it the fuck together,_ Genji might as well have said.

 

McCree didn’t have time for this. Hanzo had admittedly been somewhat helpful, but honestly it would’ve just been easier to shoot him in the leg and leave him on the hangar nice and incapacitated until they could deal with him later. _But no, that’s not how we treat our teammates,_ McCree thought sarcastically. _Especially not the ones that aren’t even our goddamn teammates._

 

And now, here he was, with a man he wouldn’t trust further than he could throw as his only support on the field after their comms had gone down in the last EMT blast.

 

The last time he thought he was gunna be this fucked, he’d insisted on being bought dinner.

 

McCree looked around the corner of the wall they’d hid behind to see if he could spot the enemy sniper. _Nothing._ But as soon as his back was safely against the concrete again, a silent bullet zinged through the space where his head had been. _Shit._

 

“Unexpected is the goal of most ambushes, yes,” Hanzo said.

 

“You wanna maybe be helpful?” McCree snapped. “‘Stead of just sittin there--”

 

His words were cut off sharply as the other man literally climbed him. The metal casing on his shins was clearly not just for show either, and dug in like motherfucking claws into the meat of McCree’s shoulder. It was all he could do to keep up enough to press his hands to the back of Hanzo’s thighs to support his weight-- _why was he helping?_ \--when he heard the distinctive _thwack_ of an arrow being released.

 

Hanzo’s weight shifted again and McCree moved to accommodate, thanking every god he had heard of that the sharp weight  rested firmly on his already mechanical arm. He was pretty sure the fucking gauntlets the other man wore on his feet would’ve already sliced through flesh by now. Not that that seemed to be a concern to Hanzo.

 

“No, go on, take your time.” McCree grumbled.

 

His hands moved to Hanzo’s hips to support him as he jumped off his shoulder, back to the ground. Where-upon the man shook off his grasp like a bad fuckin’ prom date. McCree scoffed.

 

“Mind givin’ a guy warning before the fuckin’ acrobatics?” He hissed. “Prefer not to lose my remaining arm to your misplaced confidence.”

 

“I was _helping,_ ” Hanzo replied shortly. “The sniper has been taken care of.”

 

“ _Bullshit._ ”

 

Meeting his eye with a scowl, Hanzo walked out past their cover into open air with an unnecessary flourish.

 

McCree squinted at him, watching the space around him like he expected to catch the next bullet before it hit. The air stayed blessedly still. Slowly, cautiously, McCree followed Hanzo into the open and kept his eye on the horizon where he’d last seen the glint of the sniper’s gun.

 

Nothing happened.

 

“Well,” McCree whistled low. “I’ll be damned. You’re pretty handy with that bow, ain’tcha?”

 

Hanzo rolled his eyes and pressed forward towards their objective. “ _Move_ , cowboy. There is much of this _simple mission_ left to do.”

 

McCree snorted and followed close behind. “Reckon so. Still pretty ballsy for someone not hooked up to respawn.”

 

“Respawn?” Hanzo paused momentarily to blink back at him. He made a quick motion that was easy to interpret as his intent to cross through an open pathway, so McCree nodded and put his back to Hanzo’s.

 

“Mmhm,” The horizon wasn’t really where the problems were now, McCree thought as he shot down another lackey. “Doctor Ziegler’s contraption. Saves you to her files like an old PDF so that she can re-create you at your most recent if your life needs more saving than medicine can supply.”

 

Hanzo’s back shifted against his own as they cleared the area easily. It was almost…. Companionable. Like having a partner watching his six for the first time since--

 

“Like… resurrection?” Hanzo sounded baffled. Then horrified. “You go on these missions expecting to _die?_ ”

 

They moved quickly to their next cover, hunkering behind an abandoned car already shot through with more bullet holes than any car that new had any right to be. McCree watched the left side of the alley; Hanzo watched the right.

 

‘ _Don’t get comfy, pendejo._ ’ Reyes’ old advice may as well have flicked him upside the head.

 

“No, not ressurrection. Like uh,” McCree paused to quickly fire off three shots. Two fatalities, one hit. Bastard had moved before he could get a good shot. He quickly reloaded. “Like instructions for nano-tech. Where all your bits are supposed to be, n’ all that shit. Details even a doctor can’t be expected to catch.”

 

“Your bits.” Hanzo repeated.

 

That startled a laugh out of McCree and he turned to face Hanzo properly. The shorter man’s head was tilted in confusion like a scolded puppy--one hell of a contrast to watching him put an arrow through someone’s eye. Which, of course, Hanzo promptly demonstrated when another Talon lackey rounded a corner.

 

_Impressive._

 

“Y’know, vital organs. _Bits._ ” He did his best to keep his face bland and succeeded at wheedling a snicker out of the other man.

 

‘ _Stop flirting,_ ’ Gabe warned from his memories. ‘ _Focus._ ’

 

The memory alone killed his good mood faster than he and Hanzo could take down the remaining six lackeys. Not pausing to make sure Hanzo kept up, McCree moved onward to the building supposedly housing the intel.

 

_Just get it done, McCree. C’mon._

  



	9. Of All The Ways To Die

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY THIS UPDATE TOOK SO LONG. Life hit, and also inspiration hit for an AU. It was one of those things I couldn't quite shake off. 
> 
> Anyway, here's your update at long last!! I'll go through and reply to comments soon enough.

* * *

 

 

> **AGENT: Jesse J. McCree  
>  ****LOG DATE:** _January 29th, 2056. 7:01pm.  
>  _**LOCATION:** _Watchpoint, Gibraltar.  
>  _**SUBJECT:** _Blackwatch Logs: Marked Confidential_

 

Of all the ways to die, this was not one Jesse McCree had ever expected.

 

Jesse wondered--for the umpteenth time--if maybe this whole Blackwatch schtick was such a good idea. Gabriel Reyes ( _the_ Gabriel Reyes) had been taking his damn time in setting up the simulation room. It was the highest tech thing Jesse had ever laid eyes on but still, the user interface was so painfully simple that not yanking the controls away from Commander Reyes and doing the damn set up himself ought to have qualified him for sainthood.

 

“Havin’ trouble there, Commander?” Jesse drawled. “Try the button second to the left.”

 

Gabriel Reyes ( _the_ Gabriel Reyes) shot him a nasty look over his shoulder. “Watch it kid,” he said. “I’m not made of favors.”

 

Jesse rolled his eyes, but made no further comment. For two whole goddamn hours.

 

Sainthood, Jesse decided. He’d apply as soon as they let him keep a pencil in his cell.

 

Just when Jesse was starting to get worried that he’d turn eighteen just waiting for the Commander to finish up, finally, _finally_ the man turned to him and started explaining the rules.

 

There were going to be three types of targets; Omnics, hostiles, and friendlies. Omnics would come in any shape, size, or form that they had during the war. Hostiles referred to enemy humans. _As they belong to different radicalized groups,_ Reyes explained, _there will be no identifying uniform_ _s_. No call sign. And then there would be the friendlies--civilians, holographic team mates... the usual.

 

The goal was to take down every single target in the simulation. _Whoever takes down more,_ Reyes said, _will win our bet._

 

“Don’t shoot friendlies,” Reyes clarified. “And don’t get shot.”

 

Jesse just scowled at him as he clicked the chamber of his gun into place before pushing past the doors to the simulation chamber.

 

 

* * *

 

 

> **AGENT: Jesse J. McCree  
>  ****LOG DATE:** _August 21st, 2076. 8:22pm.  
>  _**LOCATION:** Numbani, Africa _.  
>  _**SUBJECT:** _Recovery Mission Ops: Record_

 

Of all the ways to die, this was not one Jesse McCree had ever expected.

 

The comm earpiece in his hand sparked electricity up his prosthetic arm so sharply that he felt it in his shoulder bone. It probably ought to have concerned him, but at the moment McCree couldn’t give less of a shit.

 

He had successfully dropped the magnetic device on the back of the main computer--that wasn’t the issue. The data they had come for had downloaded according to plan. But instead of sticking nearby to pocket the finished download once it beeped (to the tune of some ancient 8-bit game Genji insisted on playing), McCree and Hanzo were currently hunkered down halfway across the building in an old garage that somehow smelled like ‘damp’.

 

All because Talon had seen fit to send one of their goddamn Reaper bots to this piece of shit abandoned hangar. Which, while unexpected, was manageable. He didn’t like the stank  eye Hanzo shot him when he ducked out of Reaper’s line of sight a little too quickly, but worse was the face he nearly ran into. His own.

 

In full Talon get-up, no less. McCree could see the tiny glints of robotic movement on his counterpart’s cheek and heard the hum of machinery as the man’s legs materialized from a smoke cloud made of nanotech. The final cluster of bots created a much more solid figure than those belonging to Reaper, but the man lacked any sort of intelligence in his eyes. He stared blankly at his targets, like a puppet waiting to be moved.

 

If he had to guess, McCree would place the replica as being from data about two years back.

 

 _Shit,_ McCree thought. Even if it was outdated and lifeless, there was something unbelievably unnerving knowing that Talon already had his data. _Shit, shit, shit._

 

Despite looking down the barrel of a Peacemaker replica, McCree still found himself thinking that his counterpart was surprisingly tall. The second thought was, that without his serape, he looked considerably less bulky. The clone tongued its cigar from one side of its lips to the other. McCree heard Hanzo swear behind him, which he was reluctantly thankful of when it jolted him back into motion, just in time to dodge an incoming bullet.

 

He lost his grip on the useless/sparking/dead comm and it fell to the ground behind them with a crunch that unmistakably screamed ‘lost cause’.

 

 _Whatever the fuck was on that computer had better be fuckin’ ground breaking,_ McCree thought viciously. Bullets bit at their heels as they sprinted.

 

He crowded Hanzo’s space and practically herded him towards the large rusty storage trailers that were lined up in rows towards the other end of the garage.

 

“That was--” Hanzo hissed.

 

“Mmhm,” McCree cut him off. A bullet passed by, clinking off of metal in a mangled mess.

 

“--identical,” Hanzo gestured frantically. “Does this not _alarm_ you?”

 

McCree snorted, eyeing the next break in the aisle a few containers up. “We can talk ‘bout my feelings later. _Move._ ”

 

The Talon replica rounded the corner and skidded to the middle of the aisle, levelling the barrel of  his --it’s?-- gun at their heads and firing. Both men ducked, swore and scrambled to knock empty crates and pallets over behind them to slow their pursuer down.

 

Just a couple feet behind them the metal of one of the shipping crates dented in sharply and the spray of shotgun bullets that didn’t pierce the surface clattered to the floor. McCree looked behind him quickly and saw only the tail end of the signature black smoke.

 

McCree grabbed Hanzo’s wrist and tugged him into one of the containers that had both ends open. He moved them quickly behind some of the waist high metal kegs piled in the middle of the container before pulling them down and out of the eyeline of any passersby from either end of the container. He felt like he was breathing too loudly. Like maybe Reaper or whatever the fuck that replica was, would be able to hear his heartbeat booming in his ears.

 

Hanzo pressed his back to McCree, both agreeing silently to watch one of the openings each.

 

Moments after, he saw the distinctive red glow of his own replica’s armour walk past the opening. He swallowed, finding his throat suddenly dry. The silence outside the containers was stark in comparison to the sounds of gunshots and bending metal. All he could hear distinctly was the tap of his replica’s steel toed boots against the ground, thankfully getting further away.

 

“Attack of the clone has taken a stroll,” McCree whispered a minute or so after the footsteps faded into the distance. “We got a minute there. You see the other guy yet?”

 

“About six foot one, dark cloak, two shotguns,” Hanzo rattled off. McCree felt the other man’s back leave his, heard the thwack of arrows flying, and the tell-tale thud of a downed enemy unit. Again Hanzo’s back was pressed to his. “The same man you keep prisoner off-base.”

 

McCree spun around in shock. “What?”

 

“Shh!” Hanzo smashed his hand over McCree’s mouth.

 

As if responding to a roll call, an answering blast of a shotgun rattled and echoed through the container like thunder. Another and another round hit the walls around the garage and McCree could see fistfulls of concrete fly out of the wall approximately where his and Hanzo’s heads had been running past minutes prior. His heart fell through the floorboards and he  took a moment to gather his wits before fixing Hanzo with a questioning look.

 

“Same smoke pattern,” Hanzo explained between breaths. “He does not walk--he glides. I do not know how else to explain it. _Obviously_ hostile.”

 

“Back the fuck up. Prisoner?” McCree shook free of Hanzo’s hand and furrowed his brow. “The _fuck_ makes you think I got a--”

 

“Yours or your…” Hanzo gestured vaguely outside the container. “Your ‘attack of the clone’. Now is not the time for this conversation. Will you take him down or not?”

 

Another shotgun blast blew a chunk out of the wall left of the crates they had knocked over, a few planks getting caught in the spray and sending splinters flying into the air. The whole garage started to smell like sawdust and burned wood. McCree tried to lean away from Hanzo’s hand, but the man followed his movements. It wasn’t hard for McCree to notice the knife the archer palmed against the grip of the bow, tip pointed towards McCree’s chest. May have taken longer than it should, but McCree would blame that on the shotgun blasts that echoed a little closer. It took considerable effort not to let out an indignant noise. Instead, he used his prosthetic hand to wrench the hand still hovering an inch or two from his mouth and yanked it away from him. With movement that has always payed off, McCree twisted Hanzo’s arm and leaned his weight on the joint.

 

“Knew I oughta have been expectin’ a knife in the back from you any goddamn second now.” The fact that McCree kept his voice low was a miracle. “Didn’t wait a goddamn day to start attacking Genji’s family, did’ja?”

 

Hanzo flinched backwards and opened his mouth to speak, but McCree beat him to it. He twisted the arm and pressed Hanzo face first into the inner metal wall of the container unit, careful to keep them low. Hanzo thrashed once, then stilled under McCree’s weight after hearing the metal bracing crash loudly against the container.

 

“Promised your brother I wouldn’t shoot you, but,” McCree couldn’t help the threat in his voice, “frankly I think if it came down to either me or you livin’, I think I got the advantage.”

 

“What is stopping you, then?” Hanzo hissed back.

 

“Rather not give away my goddamn location--”

 

Hanzo thrashed again and lucked out in finding a foothold strong enough to flip himself in McCree’s grip. McCree managed to keep his forearm pressed firmly across the other man’s chest. Hanzo’s chin was tilted up defiantly.

 

“Do you truly think I would be stupid enough to choose now to eliminate you?” Hanzo jerked his eyes towards the opening of the container meaningfully towards where McCree’s clone and Reaper now stalked between the aisles of containers. “That I would attempt to engage you in a fair fight? Without back up? Or a comm unit?”

 

McCree tried to speak and only managed to splutter something unintelligible.

 

“I do not trust you, _Agent_ McCree,” Hanzo snarled. “But my brother does. More importantly, you are regrettably my only way out of this mess.”

 

They stared each other down, Hanzo’s hair loosening and threads of it fell from the tied back bun as the man struggled against the wall of the containment unit. The yellow-gold ribbon that tied it in place had since lost its intricate knot and was barely doing its job. Hanzo was right. They weren’t going to make it out of this garage alive if they couldn’t ally together, or at least temporarily. McCree gritted his teeth.

 

He slowly and quietly placed Peacemaker on her side before he lifted his hand away from the weapon, never once letting his eyes leave Hanzo’s. Hanzo watched him and the gun warily, like he still expected another attack. The knife was in the hand that McCree still held pinned to his side, but he opened his fingers around the grip as a show of peace.

 

“Would ask you to drop it normally, but--”

 

Hanzo returned a sly grin. “I would if it would not make too much noise.”

 

McCree huffed a hollow laugh.

 

The flutter of Hanzo’s yellow-gold ribbon caught McCree’s eye again.

 

“Alright,” McCree ignored the tightness in his chest telling him this was a bad idea. “M’gunna need you to trust me.”

 

Hanzo scowled.

 

“For _now._ ”

 

“You are not terribly persuasive, are you?” Hanzo sneered. “You expect me to just close my eyes when you wish to shoot me later?”

 

“I have an idea--” McCree tried to interject.

 

“Then you can explain it,” Hanzo snapped.

 

There wasn’t time. McCree could hear footsteps growing closer and they just weren’t going to be able to--

 

“Get rid of the ribbon,” McCree breathed, gesturing frantically. He risked a quick glance over his shoulder before shimmying out of his serape. He tugged the fabric over his head and checked again. Still nothing, but the lack of shotgun blasts made him wary. When he finally looked at Hanzo again, the archer was still staring at him like he’d lost all remaining ties to sanity.

 

And he was still wearing the ribbon.

 

McCree suppressed a growl of frustration and tossed the serape to the ground. They didn’t have time for this.

 

“C’mon,” he grunted, reaching across to tug  the fluttering yellow streak. Hanzo’s head tilted back involuntarily and he scrambled to push McCree away. McCree heard him hiss something but he was far more focused at the task at hand. He tried another light tug to no avail. He muttered an apology under his breath and instead moved to carefully comb his fingers through the looser part of Hanzo’s hair, using deft fingers to loosen the tie from the center of the knot before he could pull it away completely. Hanzo had the knife against his throat again in seconds but McCree ignored it.

 

“Shouldn’t be wearing anything flashy in covert ops,” He explained under his breath, “unless you wanna be seen.”

 

“What?” Hanzo stared at him like he had grown another head. “What does that have to--”

 

McCree pulled his serape off the floor and bunched up fabric in the middle to form a fist sized ball before wrapping the ribbon around it tightly. He tied the ends together snugly and bounced the weight of the bunched up fabric against his hand before looking  at Hanzo again. The man looked comically disheveled, long black hair curled from the bun he kept it in tumbled down his shoulders. _It suits him,_ McCree thought.

 

“This is the part where you trust me,” McCree said. He held up a hand to amend. “For now, yes, I know. We can talk later ‘bout the rest of it.”

 

“Talk?” Hanzo snorted.

 

“Fine, you can shoot at me. _Whatever._ ” McCree waved a hand dismissively and ignored Hanzo’s incredulous look. He pointed to the right opening on the container they hid in. “But when I say go, we’re gunna make a run for it _that_ way. Got it?”

 

Hanzo’s face was unreadable. “How do I know I can trust you even now?”

 

McCree shrugged. “You don’t, sugar.”

 

Before they could delve into it again, Jesse lobbed the bundle of fabric made of his serape held together with the gold tie out of the left side of the container and hissed “go.”

 

Thankfully, Hanzo cooperated.

 

McCree watched the fabric get caught in an onslaught of shotgun pellets as soon as it left the shelter of the container. Both his serape and Hanzo’s ribbon looked like they’d been put through an industrial shredder as they floated lazily down to the ground, bunched up fabric helping curve into a nosedive. But it had worked. It gave McCree just enough time to line up the shot.

 

The crosshairs rested a little to the left off center on Reaper’s mask, but it was good enough. He pulled the trigger three times, moving the gun down incrementally to hit his chest and gun. The nanotech swarmed around the gaping holes left behind and struggled to re-shape themselves with static shocks wracking through the barely corporeal form. McCree watch with satisfaction as the microscopic bots collapsed out of shape and into a lifeless black cloud before settling on the garage floor like a particularly ominous coating of dust.

 

He felt Hanzo’s hand on the back of his neck and panicked before he got roughly dragged behind cover. Two sharp sounds of bullets on metal clinked off the wall where he had been standing.

 

McCree glanced at Hanzo. The archer reached up to tuck his hair behind his ear before he nocked another arrow. He motioned for McCree to stay down. McCree nodded. Instead he tried to reconcile the man in front of him--with all his piercings, the undercut, the tattoo--with the straight laced goody-two-shoes Genji had made him out to be.

 

Again, Hanzo risked a look over their cover and ducked down to avoid another shot. Frustration was etched into his features.

 

“This clone of yours,” he said quickly, “is it vital that it be kept in one piece?”

 

McCree stared blankly.

 

“Are you joking?” Hanzo balked at him. “You run face to face with yourself, and you do not wish to investigate?”

 

“What?” McCree shook his head, “No, no that ain’t it. I’ve got my own means of investigation, is all and-- No, the answer is no. Don’t gotta remain in one piece.”

 

After a moment of thought, “Probably best to destroy of evidence of it, actually.”

 

“Good,” Hanzo growled and McCree ignored the way it vibrated directly down his spine.

 

The archer pulled the arrow back, still crouched behind cover and started speaking under his breath in Japanese, delicately enough that it might have been a prayer. McCree strained to hear, picking up only some stuff like ‘dragon’ and ‘consume’ before the soft voice grew louder and Hanzo was bellowing out the words.

 

As if the day hadn’t been full enough of oddities, McCree watched, gaping as blue light lifted off of Hanzo’s tattoos in tight coils, stretching and widening into two enormous twin dragons. At the release of the arrow, the dragons also launched into the garage. They blew down everything in their path, sending metallic trailers flying, crates smashing against each other in mid air, and leaving no room for doubt that the Talon clone of McCree had been crushed in the wake of the wreckage.

 

Even when the blast settled the dragons still wove in and out of the air, like they sought something more. Hanzo beckoned them but McCree couldn’t hear how over the roar of the creatures flying close enough to knock them over with a gust of wind. The beasts heads were easily the length of a full grown man and their serpentine tails flicked expertly above the destroyed battlegrounds, never once catching or snaring.

 

Sharp blue eyes fell on McCree and he felt the dragon's’ gaze somewhere deep in his chest.

 

Perhaps, McCree thought weakly, the dagger Hanzo had pointed at him should not have been his primary concern.

 

Of all the ways to die, this was not one Jesse McCree had ever expected.

 

Not being stared down by dragons, surrounded by the nanobot carnage that remained of his and Gabe’s Talon clones (respectively), with only the man that had once tried to kill his best friend for company.

 

Then again, McCree used to assume he would die in a Deadlock shoot out. He supposed this counted as progress.

 

He felt the creature's’ breath warm on his face. It was scentless--nondescript enough that if he were to just close his eyes, he could convince himself that there were no dragons at all. Just really weird space heaters that puffed, and growled, and--

 

When McCree opened his eyes, he watched Hanzo quite literally, try to wrestle the beasts back into his skin. They shrunk down reluctantly, hissing and snapping at the man’s hand the whole time, until they eventually sank into the deep blue tattoo. The only indication they were there came from a faint blue glow that McCree had just assumed was the intensity of the ink. No, now that he looked, Hanzo was practically crackling with barely contained energy. It was a stark contrast to the purple rings under the man’s eyes and the way his whole person seemed to wilt with relief when the dragons were no longer crowding him.

 

It was a harsher contrast still, to McCree’s fresh memories of Genji’s long green dragon that wrapped itself around the cyborg lazily when he napped. There was no sense of peace or safety to Hanzo. And the way he stared at his tattoo like he expected more disobedience spoke volumes more than Genji ever could have when he had regaled to McCree exactly what it meant for Hanzo to abandon the Shimada clan.

 

 _Interesting,_ hummed his own voice in the back of his head.

 

 _Interesting,_ echoed his memory of Reyes.

 

 

* * *

  

 

> **AGENT: Jesse J. McCree  
>  ****LOG DATE:** _January 29th, 2056. 9:05pm.  
>  _**LOCATION:** _Watchpoint, Gibraltar.  
>  _**SUBJECT:** _Blackwatch Logs: Marked Confidential_

 

The last omnic drone had been shot down over ten minutes ago. Jesse was sure of it. But there had been no surrender call, no official announcement that the simulation was over. Maybe there were nano-bugs? He scrunched up his nose up in frustration, as he peered out into the arena from where he hid up near the top branches of a holographic tree.

 

The field was still.

 

Save for Reyes, of course, who still had to be out there. Who also hadn’t announced who had won their bet. The bastard.

 

Uneasiness settled on top of Jesse’s stomach and poked uncomfortably at the bottom of his lungs. Was there a requirement for victory that he was missing? He thought back to Reyes’ instructions. Omnics, hostiles, friendlies--don’t shoot the friendlies, don’t get shot.

 

He frowned. He was not in danger of getting shot in a simulation. The rubber bullets would sting, sure, but it wasn’t enough to--

 

_Oh._

 

Reyes. Reyes was the last hostile. Jesse swore under his breath. Of course they weren’t just gunna let him walk. Why the fuck would some fancy Commander So-and-So let even _the_ Gabriel Reyes clear Jesse’s charges? The fuck would be in that for them?

 

Nah. This was sport. He was being toyed with. Jesse could feel his blood curdle in his veins and pointedly ignored the furious speed increase in the beat of his heart. He gripped the handle of his mama’s gun between his teeth and started to climb higher above the treeline. Sure enough, as soon as he poked his head above the line he saw Reyes camped out in the middle of the arena, sitting out in the wide open like he was waiting for a picnic. Somewhere in the back of his mind that wasn’t clouded with anger, thought, _it fits._

 

Most likely waiting for Jesse to turn himself in.

 

 _Un-fucking-likely_ , Jesse thought.

 

Stalking silently through the simulated field took no time at all with all the omnics, hostiles, and friendlies having been cleared from the area. As he walked, Jesse wondered if he would at least get to know exactly how much he had beaten Reyes’ score by. It’d be something he could treasure for the rest of his goddamn days as he rotted away in prison. Jesse clenched his jaw and blinked away stinging tears.

 

Coming up behind Reyes was easy. The man wasn’t even checking for hostiles anymore. He was just sitting on a slightly elevated grassy mound, with his gun resting across his lap. He stared out into the fake arena like one would stare at a skyline. Again, Jesse raced through the possibilities in his mind. He could turn tail and run--try to make a break for it and never look back. He could eat crow and approach the commander with his tail between his legs, begging for another chance. The might buy him enough time to find a better opening.

 

Or he could go out how he always thought he might. Swingin’.

 

Jesse clicked the safety off the gun and pulled back the hammer.

 

Reyes turned to look at him leisurely, utterly unbothered by the gun aimed at his head. Out of the corner of Jesse’s eyes, he could see the little red dots from snipers that were swarming to find his vitals. But his focus was on Gabriel Reyes--the Gabriel Reyes.

 

“Not bad, _vaquero_ ,” Reyes said. The man stood up slowly and dusted himself off. He gestured half-heartedly at Jesse’s gun. “Wouldn’t recommend that, though.”

 

“And why’s that?” Jesse gritted out. Reyes didn’t comment on the way his question wobbled and somehow that just fueled the fire. “Everyone’s gotta die somehow. Figure I may as well make history.”

 

Reyes snorted. “True. But that shit isn’t enough to down me.”

 

Jesse didn’t answer. This was another trick. It had to be.

 

“You ever hear of SEP, kid?” Reyes spoke casually. “Super soldier program. They pump you full of all sorts of shit until your liver glows a nice bright green when you take x-rays. Downsides include losing the ability to get drunk. Upsides include recovering from wounds that might otherwise be lethal.”

 

Jesse narrowed his eyes. Reyes offered an apologetic grin. “Sorry, kid. You’re not gunna be makin’ history. With me, at least.”

 

He paused, looking Jesse over once. “Well. ‘Least not how you expect it.”

 

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean--”

 

Before he could even register it, Reyes had knocked Jesse’s gun out of his hand and kicked it a few meters away. The gun that had been resting by his side was now inches away from Jesse’s head. It was a nice gun. Pulse laser piece, one of the newer models.

 

And of all the ways Jesse McCree thought he might die, staring down the barrel of the highest grade military tech known to mankind may have made the list of possibilities. But he never, ever would have assumed that Gabriel Reyes--the Gabriel Reyes--would be at the other end of the piece. Some part of him was flattered.

 

The other part was painfully aware that being on the other side of a hero's gun made him a villain.

 

Jesse sighed deeply and let his eyes close.

 

Just like he had heard in rumours, the pulse gun didn’t make a classic bang so much as a sharp staccato hum akin to thousands of honeybees taking off and landing all in a span of two seconds. It was the afterwards that surprised Jesse. That he could still hear the soft whirring of the mechanical innards of the gun. That he wasn’t in pain. That he was still alive.

 

He peeked open one eye cautiously and saw that the gun had been tilted to the side, just left of his head. There was a blast radius in the wall about half a foot in circumference. Jesse stared at it.

 

“Jack, record the time of death,” Gabriel Reyes called out. The simulation around them faded to nothing. But the blast in the wall behind him was still there. “Jamie Martinez, fake name, sixteen-something years old, 5’10”, dead by friendly-fire on March 3rd, 4:35pm.”

 

“I ain’t dead,” Jesse snarled at Reyes.

 

Over the intercom, Jesse heard Commander Morrison’s voice, “Uh, Gabe--”

 

“I said,” Reyes said again slowly, “record the time of death.”

 

“The fuck’s the matter with you?” Jesse exploded. “I’m standing right here! I ain’t dead, you dumb sonova--”

 

The gun dropped away from his face level and was replaced with a fist. Jesse staggered back, hitting his skull against the jagged wall. Pain surged to life through already nasty bruising he’d nearly managed to forget about. But Reyes didn’t give him a chance to adjust. He grabbed Jesse roughly by the chin and forced him to look at the blast hole in the wall.

 

“You see that?” He asked.

 

Jesse stayed silent.

 

“That’s your life. I just bought it. Jamie Martinez died today. Which reminds me, happy birthday, whoever the fuck you are. You were just born today. Coincidentally with a clean criminal record and raised by a nice couple in New Mexico that just sent you off to military school.” Reyes explained in a horrible patronizing voice that made the hair on the back of Jesse’s neck stand on end. “What I’m sayin’ is your life is mine now, kid. You work for me.”

 

“And what the fuck makes you think I’m gunna work for you?” Jesse spat. “Why not just let Jamie Martinez stay dead? Why not kill me for real, huh? I ain’t useful to you.”

 

Reyes went quiet and slowly let go of him. When Jesse turned to look at him, the man’s expression was something familiar that Jesse couldn’t quite place. He scowled back.

 

“Then you’re gunna learn to be useful,” Reyes barked the order finally. “If I send you to jail, they’ll kill you. Jamie Martinez died once already today. I don’t know who the fuck you are, but do you plan on dying too?”

 

They stood there like that, neither willing to back down, for a solid two minutes with the red dots still dancing menacingly across Jesse’s chest and gut.

 

“No sir,” Jesse sounded quiet even to himself. He clenched his fists at his sides, unable to stop them from shaking. He stared pointedly at his gun discarded a yard or so away and tuned out as Commander Reyes gave orders to get him to medbay and fit him with an ankle monitor.

 

 _Same shit as Deadlock,_ he thought. _Same story. Different guns._

 

Of all the ways Jesse McCree thought he might die, he had hoped fervently that it wouldn’t be in captivity.

  
  



	10. Truce

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys!! Sorry this update took so long. I got uh. distracted with fae AU stuff. tldr, I'm a sucker. 
> 
> Okay, so this chapter is un-beta'd, but intentionally so. (Well, my primary beta is currently asleep, lmao.) I'm going to go back and touch up the existing chapters over the next couple days (have recruited a couple more betas to come yell at me regarding formatting and grammar and stuff) before I start on chapter 11 becaaaauuuuseeee... This chapter marks the end of Part 1, friends. Part 2 is going to have a totally different tone to it, and will likely go at a much more break-neck pace. So I wanna make sure stuff on the back end is solid first, y'know? I don't think there will be any major enough changes that any of your theories will be placed out of whack (and btw: i fuckin love reading all your predictions and theories. plx plx keep telling me your thoughts). Plus I've just gotten more into the groove of writing since I started this. 
> 
> You also may notice the updated rating, description and tags. Honestly that's just an effort to clean up the style. There's no smut in this chapter--I just felt that we've dipped into mature enough themes at this point that Teen is a bit of a stretch. 
> 
> So yeah, that's just a heads up. Anyway. here it is. I hope it's worth the wait!

* * *

 

>  
> 
> **AGENT: Jesse J. McCree  
> ** **LOG DATE:** _January 30th, 2056. 9:05am.  
>  _**LOCATION:** _Watchpoint, Gibraltar.  
>  _**SUBJECT:** _Medical Records: Marked [Confidential]_

 

“Name?”

 

The young doctor that looked at him expectantly couldn’t possibly have been that much older than him. Her blonde hair was wrapped in a loose bun at the base of her neck and she had gone down the majority of her clipboard (checking off boxes left and right) without even so much as a ‘how do you do?’ Apparently, a cursory glance was enough to tell her that he was a smoker.

 

Although, that was fair enough.

 

It took her prodding his knee with the eraser of her pencil before he remembered he was supposed to respond.

 

“Jamie Martinez.”

 

She rolled her eyes. “Real name, please.”

 

Behind her, Reyes nodded at him like the gesture was supposed to make him feel better.

 

“Might as well be the real one,” Jesse grumbled. “Haven’t responded to anythin’ else in over five years.”

 

“Doesn’t matter. We can call you Jamie if you like, but I need to look up your genetic history.” She tapped the end of the pencil against his kneecap in rhythm to her words and spoke like she was handling a particularly stubborn child. “And I need a real legal name, real birthdate, and real blood type to access those files.”

 

Jesse kept his mouth shut, glowering at Reyes, the doctor, then Reyes again.

 

The doctor seemed to take the hint. “Reyes, would you please leave medical?”

 

“What?” The man looked at Jesse irritably. “That kid is my recruit, Ziegler. I need to know--”

 

“What you need to know does not extend to the depth of his personal medical history,” Dr. Ziegler’s eyes were cold on Reyes, unperturbed. Jesse wished he had a camera. “That information is strictly confidential between him and his doctor.”

 

Reyes’ mouth opened and shut and he stared at her like a particularly dumbfounded koi fish for a solid ten seconds before he huffed and stalked dramatically out of the ward, snatching his hat off the hook before slamming the door closed behind him. Dr. Ziegler turned to Jesse again with a tired look.

 

“Better?”

 

Jesse nodded, grinning wide. “Jesse James McCree, ma’am. At your service. That was the ballsiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

 

“Jesse James?” Dr. Ziegler gave him a tight smile. “I said no more fake names.”

 

Jesse put his right hand over his heart and held his left up solemnly. “Real as real can be. Promise.”

 

She tapped the letters into a datapad next to her. “We’ll see. Birthday?”

 

“June tenth,” He replied.

 

“This will sting a bit,” was all the warning she gave him before she pulled what looked like a pen out of her breast pocket, and pressed the tip of it into his thigh. A sharp needle darted out of it, spearing him quick, then back inside the pen. She removed the cap off of the back end of it to reveal a mini-USB port and plugged it into the datapad. It beeped at her happily. “Your blood type, if you didn’t know, is AB negative.”

 

“Gee, thanks,” Jesse grumbled.

 

“Well, look at that. The records match.” The doctor giggled a little. She looked so much younger. Jesse couldn’t help softening a bit. He smiled back. “Nice to meet you, Jesse James McCree.”

 

“Yeah,” he scratched the back of his neck. “Likewise, Dr. Ziegler. You got a first name?”

 

She shot him an irritated look. “It’s ‘doctor’.”

 

He snorted. She pushed away on the rolling chair to slide under a control panel on the left wall. A screen mounted on the wall lit up bright, with a vague 3D outline of a human form slowly filling in with the injuries Jesse had accumulated over the years. He watched as the cut from the Los Muertos barbed wire streaked across his left thigh in real time. The stray bullet from target practice with Marco pierced through his gut, projectile path included with diagnostic notes popping up at the end of pointed lines.

 

“How…” He pushed himself off the patient’s chair, watching as the pulse on the screen picked up. _His pulse_.  “I didn’t tell you any--”

 

“It’s only cursory guesses,” Dr. Ziegler said, waving a hand over her shoulder like she was swatting a fly. A burn spread across Jesse’s digital abdomen, where John had splashed that vial of acid when he’d mucked up a trade that one time. “I’ll need to get confirmation from you in a minute.”

 

She turned around, clipboard in hand, and looked surprised when Jesse was no longer sitting on the chair but instead edging towards the door. She gave him a stern look.

 

“How you got your injuries is vital data to the Cauduceus system,” she explained. “It’s as confidential as everything else we discuss.”

 

They stared at each other. She made no move to leave her chair, the pencil in her fingers twitching--like she itched to move--and Jesse’s eyes scanned the control panel, looking for any subtle markings on the wooden drop down that stopped just above her knee level. Sure enough, there was an Overwatch insignia burned into the wood somewhere a little to the right of where she sat.

 

 _Emergency silent alarm_ , Jesse thought grimly.

 

“Want to tell me what you’re thinking?” She said in that same condescending tone she’d used earlier. Like she thought his fear was irrational. Or that his urge to run was stupid. As if everyone in the goddamn building didn’t know way too much.

 

“You don’t know me. You don’t get to know me. I know m’expendable, alright? You can slap a badge over any gun you want but--” he caught himself mid-snarl. Dr. Ziegler stared at him, wide eyed. In for a penny, in for a pound. He stared at the floor, gritting his teeth. “You don’t any of this shit for a funeral. Ain’t no one showin’ up anyhow.”

 

The doctor’s pencil was rested gently on the clipboard and she stared at him so intensely that he checked behind him to see if there was an eyesight chart she might’ve been reading instead. There wasn’t.

 

“Do you know what the Cauduceus system is, Jesse?”

 

“Agent McCree,” he corrected, scowling.

 

“Sure. Agent McCree,” she nodded, conceding. “The question still stands.”

 

Jesse looked at the screen behind her again. Tiny details were still being added in, and the stuff that she’d entered into her data pad was filling out the boxed spaces next to the 3D version of his own body. The face didn’t match his. There was no colour to it. Just a dim, green outline. It looked uncomfortably lifeless. He wondered if that was the point. He shrugged at the doctor.

 

She nodded again, then gestured for him to follow her.

 

“Being an agent at Overwatch is a dangerous job, you’re correct,” she said, pushing open the door to the hallway. She led them a few paces past the janitorial closet, and then poked something on the wall that looked like an air conditioning control unit. The wall next to it shimmered, backedi up away from the hallway and then slid  off to the side. Jesse’s eyes widened. “And we are aware of this. But as you may have noticed, our team stays pretty consistent.”

 

Jesse didn’t respond. The passageway led in a spiral downwards and he didn’t miss the way the secret door shut tight behind him. Locked off.

 

“You may have also noticed that I am young for a doctor,” she barely mumbled the words. Something about her tone made it clear that this was not free game for teasing. He bit back his tongue. “This is because I am not a doctor. Not… Not a medical doctor.”

 

He stayed silent when she glanced back at him. The stairs stopped at another door with a keypad. She waited pointedly for him to look away, and he did. But he strained his hearing to hear the tones of the keys she pressed. Similar to one of those old phone keypad, each of the four things pressed had a separate tone. The high pitch of the last one made it sound like the enter key. He logged this information away in the back of his head and tried to tune back into the doctor’s ramblings.

 

“...was sixteen when I got my Ph.D in bio-engineering. Nano-tech, specifically.”

 

Jesse’s mind chose that second to wake up.

 

“Wait. Ziegler. Like Ziegler nano-tech?” He asked.

 

Her lips pressed into a thin line and she gave him a forced smile. “The one and the same.”

 

The room they entered was stark. There were no counter-tops, no shelving units… nothing. Just a thin glass wall with a sealed door across the center of the room. On the far side, there were two ovals. One, a slightly raised platform on the floor. The second mirrored it on the ceiling. The whole room hummed with raw electricity.

 

“Nano-bots are our greatest asset at Overwatch,” she said, a little bit of energy coming back into her voice. He watched her as she pulled the same pen she’d stabbed him with earlier out of her breast pocket and twisted the cap on it until it emitted a bright yellow beam. She held it away from herself--as far as her arm would allow--and scanned the light across her torso. The pen beeped once, twice, and then the beacon retracted, replacing itself with a flashing green light. She clicked the end of it and stuffed it back into her pocket. She checked the datapad again, scrolling through the data she had presumably just uploaded with a critical eye. “Aside from helping us tactically, they quite literally, save our lives on the battlefield.”

 

She handed the datapad to him after she finished with it. He barely got a good hold of it before she dropped it and walked to the sealed door separating the chambers. He moved to follow her, but she held up a hand and told him to stay put. She pushed open the door and closed it behind her. She gave him a look, as if she’d just realized she’d handed the gang member expensive equipment.Jesse rolled his eyes.

 

“Weren’t you the one tryin’ to convince me that runnin’ is stupid?” he asked dryly.

 

She offered only a terse smile, then moved to stand on the oval platform. It lit up beneath her.

 

“Nano-bots ultimately mimic the commands we give them,” she explained as the machinery in the walls whirred to life. “And there’s no limit to the complexity of the commands we can give--especially if we instruct them to work as a unit rather than individually.”

 

“Like a hive?”

 

She blinked, eyebrows raising. “Yes, Agent McCree. Exactly like a hive.”

 

He didn’t bother to hide the smug smile now.

 

“One of the more notable things nano-bots can mimic is human data,” she futzed around in her labcoat pockets, searching for something. Her lips tugged upwards when she wrapped her hands around something and pulled out a pistol. Jesse took a few steps backwards. “Oh, don’t worry! I have an alarm set to go off in one minute if I don’t shut it off manually myself. The whole strike team will be here in seconds.”

 

“What? I ain’t worried about you--”

 

And boy howdy, Jesse had misjudged a lot of people in his life but never so much as he had misjudged Dr. Ziegler. Angela Ziegler, if the name on the top of her data file was anything to go by. Because the pistol was immediately aimed at her own gut and she fired without any warning.

 

Jesse’s jaw dropped only moments before the datapad did. The screen cracked and he heard the alarm system go off distantly, but he was more focused on trying to get the glass door open.

 

“Shit! Shit, _shit--_ ” The door wouldn’t budge.

 

Dr. Ziegler sat up weakly in the pool of her own blood, looking annoyed (of all things) at the alarm. “It’s okay. Jesse. Watch me.”

 

He stared at her in horror, following the finger she had pointed at her abdomen. A tiny little cloud of nano-bots swarmed in from the perimeters of the ovals, spiraling around her body and pressing into the wound. She stared at it, unconcerned. Jesse scrambled to look back at the datapad, looking for anything he could use to prove that he did not shoot the goddamn doctor in the secret chamber without supervision.

 

“God, crazy fucking--- shit. _Shit_.” Jesse swore.

 

He heard a rap on the glass and looked up. Dr. Ziegler was standing again, still pointing at her abdomen. The bleeding had stopped completely. She lifted up the ends of her shirt just enough so that he could actually watch the wound itself close up. It wasn’t… skin. Not quite. He squinted, trying to figure out what was wrong with it until he realized. It was the bots. They’d formed a tight mesh over the wound and were vibrating so rapidly that they smoothed out into a solid surface. More than that, they were actively rebuilding her flesh, stepping away from their positions as substitutes as the real thing was able to take its place.

 

Jesse barely even noticed when heavy boots hit the floor behind him, didn’t even mind when he saw the laser sights from military grade rifles search until they presumably found his back. He didn’t even think to put his hands up or drop the data pad.

 

In his hand, the broken screen blinked out the words:

 

**REPLICATION COMPLETE.**

 

Dr. Ziegler unlocked and opened the glass door again, and he could hear the apologetic tone in her voice.

 

He stared at the data pad. The message blinking was soon accompanied by a second.

 

**APPLY UPDATE?**

 

The pad was tugged from his grip lightly and he managed to wrench his gaze from it long enough to watch the doctor shoo the armed men back up the spiral staircase. She closed the door behind them, then checked the datapad herself. She tutted at the cracked screen.

 

“What I hope that demonstrated, Agent McCree, is that your funeral is a long ways off as long as I have you in my system.”

 

She stared at him levelly, expression as friendly as could be. As if she hadn’t just mortally wounded herself. Jesse started to wonder if perhaps he would’ve been safer in prison when she offered him a hand to his feet. He shook his head, pushing himself up and dusting glass shards off his knees.

 

“What about the update?” his voice asked without his permission. “That talkin’ about your--y’know. Wound? Or…?”

 

“Ah,” she frowned at the datapad, closing out the window. “No, that’s an old glitch. Still haven’t smoothed it out. It tries to override the memory block I added. As soon as the bots touch, they release a powerful painkiller and block out nerve endings from receiving the proper signals that would create the memory. I see no reason for the patient to remember the pain and suffering they endure.”

 

“Wow,” Jesse breathed. “Just… wow.”

 

Dr. Ziegler smiled at him, actually warm, genuine. He stared back at her, unsure what to do. She tucked the pistol--carefully back into her inner lab coat pocket, then gestured for him to follow her back to the spiral stairs.

 

“Perhaps now it is clear why I need as much detail as you are able to provide, hm?” she said, and Jesse got the feeling she was laughing at him. “Now let us return to your medical examination. I still have to fit you with an ankle monitor and I would prefer to have all of this done before dinner time.”

 

He wondered how much of this was standard hazing and how much of this was a powerplay over the new gang member agent. He set his jaw. This was going to be vastly more complicated than anything Deadlock had thrown at him.  

 

 

* * *

 

 

> **AGENT: Jesse McCree  
> ** **LOG DATE:** _August 21st, 2076. 9:43pm.  
>  _**LOCATION:** Watchpoint, Gibraltar, Winston’s Lab _.  
>  _**SUBJECT:** _Recovery Mission Post-Ops: Record_

 

“Did you get samples of the bullets for ballistics?” Winston was constantly on the move as he asked McCree and Hanzo details about the mission. McCree dropped a small plastic baggie of shotgun shells and smashed up bullets on the nearest lab table. The gorilla grinned at him in a way that was probably supposed to be comforting. “Good, good. I’ll have Athena get started on that as soon as possible.”

 

“Understood, Winston.” Athena’s voice echoed.

 

“Tracer? Genji?” Winston looked to the other agents.

 

Before the two could even begin relaying their information, McCree felt Hanzo’s heavy gaze on his neck. He fidgeted and looked the other man square in the eye. Hanzo made a gesture that was clearly meant as something equivalent to ‘what the fuck’.

 

Presumably about McCree’s total lack of coverage regarding the clones.

 

McCree shook his head as discreetly as he could and tried to will Hanzo into silence.

 

If it came down to it, McCree had the home turf advantage. No one would take Hanzo’s word over his. Even if he had to start playing dirty. The two men both held their ground, neither looking away, neither retreating from the point. He thought back to the sight of Hanzo wrestling with his dragons and wondered if he could spin that on the man somehow.

 

Hanzo’s gaze drifted over to Genji, back to McCree, and softened. He let his eyes close and drew in a deep breath. Then, Hanzo surprised him, again. When he opened his eyes this time, he gave McCree the smallest of nods. His whole posture relaxed, and he went back to paying attention to the mission debriefing.

 

“...want to thank Genji’s brother for his assistance,” Winston’s voice boomed. “I know you were eager to leave the facility and we appreciate your detour. Your help may have helped save our lives, as well as that of the innocent civilians caught in Talon’s path.”

 

“Of course,” Hanzo replied easily, bowing just enough to be respectful while still maintaining the impersonal air. His eyes slid back to McCree. “While it may sound counter-intuitive, my brother’s safety is my priority.”

 

McCree let his gaze land back on the plastic baggie.

 

“Hmph. Well, that is good to hear,” the gorilla managed to sound genuine, which McCree considered a feat. He could feel the way Tracer shifted uncomfortably, the tension in the room tangible. “There is another matter I would like to discuss before dismissing you. Hanzo, if you don’t mind…?”

 

Hanzo nodded, turning on his heel and leaving the lab with his head held high. McCree couldn’t help but follow the swish of the ribbon he still kept clutched in a fist. There was a serenity to the action that didn’t at all belie the ferocity McCree had seen in action.

 

Winston relayed commands to Athena all the while, swinging from his tire and reaching out a giant hand to help steady the projector screen as it lowered. He jumped back over to his desk and pulled up the proper file, shooting it over to the projector with a flick of his wrist. The scientist swivelled around in his chair, looking at the screen from the side as the clip loaded.

 

McCree recognized the snowy mountain immediately. As well as the corpses. The police investigation team was a new addition.

 

“While you were out, we received information on several new Talon hits,” Winston explained. He tapped the mouse on his desk and the scene changed to a small familiar wooden cabin where a family of four lived. Had lived. It was the mission Hanzo had almost sabotaged. McCree focused on keeping his vitals steady and exerted considerable willpower into not glancing over at the archer. Athena’s all-seeing, big brother shit was the last thing he needed on his tail. “Civilians, all of them. Scientists, in particular.”

 

“They killed the children,” Tracer’s voice broke on the last word and McCree looked down at his feet. “Ain’t right. That just ain’t right.”

 

“Agent McCree,” Athena’s voice echoed throughout the room. He clenched his jaw. “You have an extensive background with espionage and other forms of covert ops. My systems could not detect any patterns in the killings that could be assigned to any known Talon agents. Do you have any suggestions?”

 

Genji’s green glow lit up McCree’s left side and he didn’t have to look to know that Tracer’s big doe eyes were on him too. He swallowed.

 

“Don’t know if what I can tell you would be any better then what Athena’s already got, but, Winston, would’ya go back to that first clip?” he asked. The scientist nodded, scrolling back.

 

Again he saw the mountainside. This time he scoured the image for anything that could’ve given him away. There were two marks in the side of the cliff from his ice pick that could have offered insight, but they were so small and tucked away that they could’ve easily just been nature itself. And without a third mark to make a pattern, there’d be no reason for it to show up on Athena’s readings. His heart sank. The man that had offered him a hand up had unwittingly covered up his tracks.

 

McCree sighed. “Don’t see any footprints, but that’s not sayin’ much. Looks like they got shot. Small caliber, close range. Investigation reports could tell you more then that, though. Any particular reason y’think it ain’t Reaper?”

 

Winston hummed. “Doesn’t he prefer shotguns?”

 

McCree shrugged.

 

The scientist nodded, staring at the image thoughtfully. Another second or so passed and McCree wracked his brain for the information he could divulge, separating it from the information he shouldn’t have.

 

“Well, it was worth a shot,” Winston huffed out a frustrated sigh and the projector screen retracted into the ceiling.The image distorted on the wall behind, gradually flickering off. “That’s all for now agents. Dismissed.”

 

“Agent McCree,” Athena’s voice rang out again. “Dr. Ziegler wishes to speak with you ASAP in the medical labs.”

 

He cringed, trying to think up an excuse.

 

“Thank you for your concern, Athena, but I think I can escort Agent McCree from here,” Angela’s voice said sweetly from behind him. It was undoubtedly a threat. He plastered a smile on his face as her arm laced through his, tugging pointedly at his mechanical elbow. “I suspect we can find our own way, can’t we?”

 

They walked in amiable silence to the labs, Angela’s fingers casually tapping against the mechanics, pretending like she wasn’t gathering data. She managed to keep it discreet long enough until she got to the skull design, and couldn’t stop herself from yanking the serape away so that she could stare at it.

 

“Anyone ever tell you that you’re stubborn as shit?” McCree grumbled.

 

“Is that copper engraving?” she narrowed her eyes at it, tilting the arm to the side to examine it more closely as they ducked into the lab. “Is this vanity plating?”

 

He yanked his arm away from her, halting a step away from the door and glaring.

 

She tossed her hands up in exasperation and skittered over to her desk to retrieve her data-pad. It buzzed to life under her touch and the Cauduceus portal blinked into life on the screen of the pad and the larger computer station behind her. The same dim green 3D body outline rotated slowly, each of his scars and injuries blaring to life fresh and raw for examination. He watched, jaw set, as his left arm slowly disintegrated on the screen as the room sensors picked up data before Angela could even  scan him.

 

She had the staff in hand before he could step away and the golden glow enveloped him like a cloud. He felt the nano-bots subtly yanking away hair, skin, and blood samples. Taps and bumps echoed from inside his metal arm and he shook it out, scowling as the bots buzzed away with the rest of the cloud, attaching to their respective spots against a giant flat wall made of ports at the edge of Angela’s desk.

 

“I don’t know how many times we need to cover this, Jesse,” She tsk’ed, tapping something into the system. She glanced over her shoulder at him, then tapped in something else. The light green figure adjusted its weight to put more weight on it’s right side. McCree shifted his stance to correct it. “I cannot provide--”

 

“Proper medical care without the details, yeah I know,” he groused. “Then you tell me all ‘bout doctor patient confidentiality, where y’leave out the bit where you got a Ph.D and that’s not the kind’a doctor covered by that sorta thing--”

 

“I did eventually get my M.D.”

 

“--whatever. Forgive me if I ain’t rearin’ to turn over my information to a lady workin’ for a government that wants me jailed, dead, or otherwise incapacitated.” He tipped his hat back so that he could fix her with the full extent of exactly how much he disapproved. “Don’t particularly see a reason why they’d go outta their way to heal me. Specially since I used to work pretty damn close to ol’ Reyes himself.”

 

Dropping the name was akin to dropping a bomb and immediately he saw her spine stiffen uncomfortably. Her gaze fell to the patient chair, and she hovered around it, tugging at the sanitary paper until it lay flat.

 

“An’ that near as much makes me as criminal as him, don’t it?” McCree pushed harder. He opened his mouth to speak again but Angela cut him off with a snort.

 

“You seem to be under the impression that I heal only the innocent.”

 

He frowned. “You tellin’ me I’m no longer the only reformed criminal among the ranks?”

 

“Oh so you are reformed,” She grinned slyly at him. “How good to hear.”

 

He huffed and crossed his arms over his chest.

 

Her grin faded slowly, melting back into the hollows under her cheekbones like the shadows on her face were hungry to consume it’s light. When she spoke again, it was quiet.

 

“I was there. At the explosion. I saw Jack. And I saw… I saw Gabe. I watched as the roof caved in on them from where I stood, unable to do anything.” Her voice was gentle, yet McCree found himself once again slaw jawed in the presence of Dr. Ziegler; at the mercy of her retelling. “I wasn’t quick enough to get to Jack’s body--they took it away before I could get there. But Gabe…”

 

Her voice wobbled and McCree was torn as to whether he ought to comfort her or take off running.

 

“I tried to… They told me not to but I tried to--” she shook her head sharply, interrupting the sentence halfway to swallow whatever had been at the tip of her tongue. “I held him through it, Jesse.”

 

McCree’s mouth opened and shut uselessly. He dug his hands into his pockets, unsure on what to do with them. He wished badly that his manners were poor enough that he’d light up a cigar. Or pull out a flask. Or both.

 

“I don’t know why he did what he did but he was still Gabe until the very end,” she said, a soft smile returning to her features. She leaned against the patient chair, paper crinkling. “He was still… You know. Him.”

 

It took McCree a full minute to process that. “Wait. What’dyou mean?”

 

“I mean he wasn’t well, Jesse. But he wasn’t the monster they made him out to be. He wasn’t bloodthirsty.” She shook her head, trying to clear the thought from her mind. “But he wasn’t… lucid.”

 

McCree thoughts returned to the Reaper clone in the cell. He thought about the latest version of Reyes he’d managed to access. He thought about the hardness in the lines on his face. The sternness that could always easily be mistaken for coldness. He thought about the fear that had been in Reyes’ voice when they’d spoken last before the explosion. Like a man barely surviving. Like a man that knew he was being hunted.

 

“Did he…” McCree swallowed thickly and tried again. “What did he say?”

 

“You know I can’t tell you that, Jess,” Angela said as gently as she could. Still she flinched away when McCree met her gaze, and instead focused on his metal arm.

 

 _Ah_.

 

“I’ll tell you how I lost the arm,” McCree said slow, waiting to see her eyes snap back onto his, just as bright and brilliant as always, “if, an’ only if, you give me your battlefield video from that day. I assume you were in the Valkyrie get-up?”

 

Angela’s brows furrowed as she frowned. “I was, yes, but you know very well that I cannot divulge--”

 

“Dead men got no use for confidentiality, Ang,” McCree interrupted.

 

She stared at him hard, calculating. Something else flickered across her face that McCree didn’t quite catch, but he stayed firm.

 

“You don’t want to see this, Jesse,” she warned. “It’s not… It’s not how you want to remember him.”

 

McCree barked out a laugh then. “Yeah n’ the news gave me all sorts’a great alternatives. Gee, thanks.”

 

“That’s not what--”

 

“I know it ain’t what you meant,” he took off his hat then, holding it to his chest. He took a deep breath and conjured up the memories of Reyes that still stung: the first time they’d gone to the range together; when they got dinner after the shitshow in Cambodia; on the beach at Gibraltar, offering Jesse his first cigar. Once he was sure it showed on his face, he let himself meet Angela’s eyes again. When she bit her lip, he knew he hit his mark. “Don’t deny me this, Ang. S’the only chance I’ll ever get to say goodbye to him as he was. Not as they painted him.”

 

He heard her breath catch in her throat and watched her turn her back to him, edging back towards her desk. She typed in something, and scrolled through a list that he couldn’t quite make out.

 

“Don’t make me regret this, Jesse,” her voice broke a little too harshly on his name and he felt the corresponding pang of guilt just under his breastbone. Something at her station beeped, and she stepped away from it. “You should have access to it now. It’s saved to your drive.”

 

He nodded before he remembered that she wasn’t looking his direction. He placed the hat snugly back on his head and cleared his throat.

 

“Thanks, doc.”

 

“You’re welcome, Agent McCree.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

> **AGENT: Jesse McCree  
> ** **LOG DATE:** _August 21st, 2076. 11:12pm.  
>  _**LOCATION:** Watchpoint, Gibraltar. Roof of the Supply Building.  
>  **SUBJECT:** [REDACTED]

 

A whiskey blanket was what one of his Deadlock mates described as the warmth that good liquor left in your belly. They used to always insist, ‘take shots before firing shots’, saying that you couldn’t be trusted on the battlefield if the cold dulled your senses to a sludge. And while it was true that the alcohol would make you feel warmer, it would not actually raise your core body temperature. In fact, it just made you less likely to wear the proper attire for shoot outs on cold desert nights. A whiskey blanket, McCree knew, was something that made you feel safer while it tossed you right onto the train tracks.

 

That was what the data pad in his hands felt like.

 

Even with the cold of the Gibraltar night that bit at his cheeks and dyed the whiskers on his face a stiff cold hue, his own flask couldn’t ward off the chill that set deep in his bones. It was the sense of foreboding that came before vital missions. The ones where you lost somebody. Or learned something you didn’t want to. It was the stuff that really mattered, though McCree had had more than enough of those moments to last a lifetime, thank you very much.

 

The last moments of Gabriel Reyes sat in a non-descript video file marked: G. REYES. The end of a man’s life summed up in six letters. And what could be the last piece of the godforsaken puzzle still kept in the clutches of the Reaper clones.

 

And it wasn’t something that could wait, either. If Talon had started salvaging his own body data from transport beams and public archives, there wasn’t a chance in hell that they hadn’t started replicating the rest of Overwatch. It was only a matter of time before they had clones as complete and as capable as the Reapers.

 

In a wave of selfishness, McCree double tapped the file as he inhaled deep from the end of his cigar, breathing out a heavy cloud of smoke to obscure the first few seconds of visual. He heard the crackling of fire, sirens, and the sound of moving rubble. And Angela’s own labored breathing.

 

The doctor swore under her breath. Her pale hands came into view through the smoke, clawing at the wreckage for leverage, and trying to hop back into the air. Her knuckles were scraped to hell and back and soot blackened her arms in patches. Limbs and crushed faces poked out of the fallen walls at odd angles, as grey and lifeless as the settling soot and dust that dulled the blood splatter.

 

“Can you hear me?” Angela’s voice sounded rough. Like she’d been calling to survivors for hours. “If you can hear me, please yell! I am coming for you! You will be okay!”

 

A chuckle to Angela’s right and Jesse felt his gut clench up. He watched as she pushed past precariously balanced beams, and coughed when the smoke hit her. But she moved undeterred, towards the source of the voice.

 

There he was, only the top part of his torso was visible. The rest of him was under a flat piece of wall, and blood leaked out around him on all sides. He heard Angela gasp and almost wanted to thank her for expressing the feeling when he couldn’t. Reyes’ eyes landed on her, sharp as ever and the video stilled with the doctor.

 

“Angela?” Reyes wheezed. “That you, kid?”

 

There was a moment before Angela responded. Her voice sounded too loud in the recording. Too close to the mic.

 

“Not a kid anymore, Reyes.” She moved towards the fallen wall. “Need you to take a deep breath for me. Okay? One, two…”

 

“ _Don’t--_ ”

 

Angela heaved the wall off him with the bolstered strength of her suit, and Jesse almost wished she hadn’t. Gabriel Reyes was the kind of man that didn’t break. The kind of man that felled mountains. It felt disrespectful to see him crumpled like he was, limbs barely recognizable and a mash of flesh and bone and blood. Jesse gagged, but forced himself to watch.

 

As soon as the Cauduceus staff became visible, Gabe’s badly broken arm reached out and knocked it away. He hissed in pain, skull slamming back hard against the ground. Angela scrambled to retrieve the staff and tried to lift it again but he cried out.

 

“Stop!” His breath left him in ragged, wet gasps. “Don’t, kiddo. Don’t you dare.”

 

“Reyes, it’s just my staff, same as always--”

 

“I know what it is,” he snapped. His eyes were on her again, sharp as ever. “I need you to listen to me, okay?”

 

“Gabe--”

 

“No. Listen. That’s an order. _Okay?_ ”

 

Angela faltered then, staff still half raised, half poised to ignore the order. The video shifted as she looked around the scene, following her gaze as she watched smoke spiral into the sky. Then it turned back to Reyes.

 

“Did Jackie make it out?” He wheezed. “Rein?”

 

“I-I…” Angela stuttered. “Rein made it but… I’m so sorry, Gabe, I don’t--”

 

“It’s fine,” Reyes cut her off sharply. He blinked furiously and Jesse couldn’t tell what was paining him the most. “S’fine. It fuckin’ figures. _Hah._ Stubborn asshole.”

 

He fell into another coughing fit, blood leaking from his lips too fast even for the SEP program survivor to compensate for.

 

“Jesse? Where’s Jesse?” Reyes’ eyes went wild then and he tried to sit up. Angela rushed forward and pushed him back down. He looked at her like he didn’t recognize her for a second, the glaze in his eyes frantic and rabid. Jesse couldn’t breathe. “Where’s…?”

 

“I don’t know,” Angela shook her head. “He ran from Blackwatch a few weeks ago. No one has seen or heard from him.”

 

“Oh,” Relief flooded Reyes’ face then. “Good. Good kid. Thank god. He might be safe then. Might be--”

 

Another coughing fit.

 

Angela raised the staff slowly, trying not to alert Reyes, but Reyes caught her like she was a fresh recruit. His broken and bloodied hand rested on the head of the staff and he shot her a sharp grin between coughs.

 

“No, none of that shit,” he said firmly. “You gotta listen, okay?”

 

Angela kept the staff firm and Jesse watched as her fingers slowly climbed up to the controls.

 

“You gotta destroy this staff. Destroy your lab, the nano-bots, the nano-tech research, the logs… Everything. Burn it to the ground, you hearing me kiddo?” He shook the staff meaningfully.

 

“I can’t--”

 

“You can and you will,” he snarled out, “if you really want to keep everyone safe from them.”

 

“Who’s them, Gabriel?” Angela’s voice was wavering now and Jesse had to remind himself to breathe. “Who am I protecting you from?”

 

“Nah, not me kiddo,” Reyes’ smile was wan and it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m done. This is it for me. My own damn fault for movin’ so goddamn slow.”

 

Again Angela’s fingers crept closer to the controls.

 

“You just… You tell Jesse I’m sorry, okay?” Reyes’ eyes were watery as he spoke and the coughs that wracked his chest sounded too close to sobs. Jesse could feel the sting in his own eyes. “And you keep an eye on Som for me, okay? She’s… She’s…”

 

The coughing lasted longer this time and his torso writhed with it. Angela’s fingers were so close to the activation button as she waited to line up her shot.

 

Gabe’s hand reached out from the staff to clutch at Angela’s face, and he looked directly into her eyepiece. “You hear me, _mijo?_ ”

 

“Yeah,” Jesse croaked out. He knew it was a video. He knew. “Yeah, I hear you.”

 

“I’m proud of you. P-Proud of you kids.” He coughed again, hand falling to his chest, grasping at it like he was trying to hold himself together at the seams. “Know you’re gunna-- You’re gunna give’em hell, okay _mijo?_ Please. I’m sorry. I’m so--”

 

The golden beam of the staff blasted out from the tip before Jesse could brace himself for it and he nearly dropped the data pad onto the rough tiled roof. Gabe roared as it hit him, teeth bared in a vicious snarl. His arm reached out again, this time grasping the staff by the winged tips where Angela stored her pen-drives of data. His hand curled around three of them and twisted hard.

 

The staff crackled and the golden light twisted like a cyclone, dancing over Reyes’ body at random. The nano-bots tugged and pulled without direction gradually becoming more and more violent until Angela’s scream matched Reyes’.

 

“What did you do?” she shrieked at him as the bots tore into him. “ _What did you do?_ ”

 

“M’sorry--”

 

The video cut out.

 

Only then did Jesse hear his own sobs. Only then did he give himself time to mourn the man in the video as he ought to have been.

 

And if the former Blackwatch agent didn’t notice the eye catching yellow ribbon or the dark eyes  watching him from the adjacent rooftop? Well. His skill in the field could hardly be found blameworthy.

 

 

* * *

 

 

> **AGENT: Jesse McCree  
> ** **LOG DATE:** _August 22st, 2076. 1:10am.  
>  _**LOCATION:** Watchpoint, Gibraltar. Roof of the Supply Building.  
>  **SUBJECT:** _Misc.: Low Priority_

 

Jesse McCree made coffee. Three shots of espresso, one cup americana, a quarter cup of sugar, and latte foam. It burned going down.

 

Jesse McCree had his first cigar of the day at exactly 12:02AM.  The smoke was thick and black like--

 

It burned going down.

 

Jesse McCree was unafraid.

 

 

* * *

 

 

> **AGENT: Jesse McCree  
> ** **LOG DATE:** _August 22st, 2076. 8:03am.  
>  _**LOCATION:** Watchpoint, Gibraltar. Shooting Range.  
>  **SUBJECT:** _Misc.: Low Priority_

 

When he finally approached Hanzo, it was in the training facilities. The man had been curiously gracious about allowing McCree his space, not pressing for more information. But when he did appear behind the archer, all it took was a cursory glance and a nod before he began packing up his materials to follow McCree out to the woods.

 

McCree raised an eyebrow at the transport station attendant who congratulated Hanzo on finding ‘his man’. Both eyebrows nearly shot up and off his forehead when Hanzo actually smiled back at the attendant. But aside from the brief incident at the transport station, their journey was silent. Even when pushing through the tall grass, the smaller man followed him without question, and without trouble.

 

McCree stopped at the edge of the cliffside, staring down into the ravine like it called out to him. Hanzo stood by his side, watching him carefully.

 

“I owe you an apology, Shimada-san,” McCree said, voice gruff. “Know a thing or two ‘bout seekin’ redemption. Know an honest quest for it when I see it.”

 

Hanzo looked away quickly then, the only sign that the statement had at all landed.

 

“Genji said he trusted you and I should’a taken him at his word, but,” McCree laughed and it sounded hollow even to his own ears. “I’m a paranoid bastard. Gotta see it with my own eyes.”

 

The archer’s gaze remained stubbornly fixed on the horizon, carefully sculpted neutral. McCree huffed and plopped down onto the ground roughly, letting his legs stretch out and dangle over the sides of the cliff. He fished around in his pocket for a new cigar and tucked it into the corner of his mouth while he dug out the clipper. He chopped off the end of it without ceremony, and pulled out his lighter from his pocket with practiced ease.

 

Beside him, Hanzo gingerly sat down. He still kept a fair distance from the gunslinger, and while his eyes were on the horizon, there was no doubt in McCree’s mind that every single one of his moves was being analyzed half to death. He took a long deep puff of the cigar to get the fire rolling and held it in his lungs until it stung at the corners of his eyes. When he exhaled, he leaned his head back and blew the smoke high into the night sky like a poor imitation of a dragon. His mechanical hand caught his hat as it fell off and he moved it to lay on his other side as he rested his back against the cool ground.

 

He took another few deep hits off the cigar until he was feeling the buzz around the corners of his vision. Then he held out the cigar to Hanzo, watching as the man stared at the cigar like it might bite him.

 

“It ain’t fancy or nothin’,” McCree said. “But it’ll help take the edge off a bit.”

 

Hanzo’s dark eyes slipped from the cigar to McCree’s face again and he felt suddenly self conscious. Slender fingers wrapped around the cigar and took it gently. McCree watched, fascinated as the man’s lips wrapped around the end of it and as his thick dark lashes fluttered down to his cheeks as he breathed in the smoke. Even with a casual exhale, Hanzo managed to exude poise and grace from every pore of his being. Something that only those born into it could really do.

 

McCree cleared his throat and looked at the stars instead.

 

“You were right. Genji’s in danger,” he said, keeping his voice calm even when those dark eyes flashed over to examine him as a threat. “So’s all of Overwatch, really. But you’re also right about traitors bein’ a possibility.”

 

“Aside from the missions you take for Talon?” Hanzo’s voice was cool and even. No sign that the smoke had ever touched his throat.

 

“That I take to keep Talon off my tracks, yeah,” McCree corrected, maybe a little more grumbly than necessary. “Mission necessity.”

 

Hanzo ‘hm’d quietly and took another puff of smoke before passing the cigar back to McCree. McCree sucked in more smoke like he was starving for it and held it in again until he couldn’t.

 

“Not sure how, but they got the Cauduceus tech that lets’em command nano-bots to form up like people. Real people,” McCree paused. He snorted. “S’pose I don’t have to ease you into the whole clone thing, huh?”

 

“No, I suppose you do not,” Hanzo replied, and McCree could have sworn he heard a smirk on his voice.

 

“Right now they’re just look-a-likes. Nothin’ like the Reaper-bots they got running around convincing the world that they’re all the same immortal guy,” McCree took another hit and blew three perfect O’s before handing the cigar back to the archer. “None of’em nearly as smart, either.”

 

“Oh?” Hanzo took the cigar with far less suspicion.

 

“Mmhm. Managed to find a way to imprint memories. Or personality. I can’t fuckin’ tell,” McCree shrugged and crossed his arms behind his head. “Point is, we got a bunch of malfunctioning, partially lucid Gabriel Reyes’ out there. Bad as that is, the last thing we need is a bunch’a whip smart, fully trained Genji look-a-likes out there too. And I can’t think of no one who’s got more body data stored up in the Cauduceus system than Gen.”

 

Hanzo frowned. “Could they even successfully mimic him?”

 

“To be honest?” McCree said, sitting up to look at Hanzo more directly. “I’ve got no fucking idea. I don’t know who’s feeding them the info, don’t know which info it is they’re being fed. My best guess is on imprints from transport decks and the medical data stored in the Cauduceus system. But even that ain’t enough to make a whole person from nothing. Yet somehow…”

 

McCree gestured to the ravine.

 

“Yet somehow you have a clone of Gabriel Reyes waiting in a cave,” Hanzo’s voice was so flat that McCree laughed out loud.

 

“Well, when you put it like that,” he grinned. “It makes it sound kinda crazy, don’t it?”

 

Hanzo stared at him for a moment before smiling and passing the cigar back. “And what is it that you want from me?”

 

McCree twirled the cigar between his fingers and tapped the edge of it on the ground between them before sticking it between his lips. “You ain’t in the Cauduceus system. Won’t be til you join Overwatch.”

 

“You want me to leave?” Hanzo looked surprised then. “You tell me all this, just to--”

 

“No, no, I ain’t finished,” McCree waved a hand and Hanzo made a dramatic gesture, indicating for him to continue. “Want you to stay in purgatory. Don’t join up, but don’t leave.”

 

“Meaning I will not get the benefit of respawn,” Hanzo said warily.

 

“Meaning Talon’ll never see you comin’.” McCree puffed out another ring and shot a bullet through the center of it with his mechanical hand pointed into a finger gun. “I’ve been corruptin’ my data in Angela’s files for a year and a half now--but they’ve still got old info on me. You? They got nothin’.”

 

Hanzo watched him, carefully considering for a long time before he answered.

 

“Alright.”

 

“Yeah?” McCree grinned. He couldn’t help it. “You’re in?”

 

Hanzo gave him a tired smile. “I am in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please please please let me know what you think! your comments are seriously the world's best motivation to keep writing. 
> 
> Til next time! <3

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me screaming about overwatch stuff at getmcfucked.tumblr.com  
> Please come scream with me.


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